


The Harlequin

by knit_wear



Series: The Harlequin [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Complete, F/M, Harley Quinn - Freeform, Nolan-verse, Personal Lives, Slow Burn, Smut, The Joker - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2020-03-01 11:53:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 406,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18799819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knit_wear/pseuds/knit_wear
Summary: Everyone deserves a personal life, even Gotham's two most notorious psychopaths.orA Nolan-take on Harley Quinn's evolution.





	1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This story picks up where the Dark Knight left off, so for all intents and purposes the Dark Knight Rises didn't happen.**

**This is a Nolan-esque origin story for Harley Quinn, a very different kind of Harley for Heath Ledger’s very unique version of the Joker. Hope you stick with it, the slow burn rapidly speeds up in the second act..**

* * *

The Harlequin

Part 1 - Arkham

1.

* * *

Every morning, at 5.30 AM, Harley was jolted out of sleep by the sound of birds chirping loudly. Every morning, her eyes would snap open, and she would suck in a deep breath, telling herself she would change her alarm. Then her thoughts would turn to the long list of things she had to complete that day at Arkham, usually with a degree of a go-get-em' attitude. But this morning, she felt irritation roll through her as she remembered what she had to deal with on top of her heavy workload; the Joker's admission to Arkham, an all-consuming event for the asylum. As if she didn't already have enough on her plate, now she had to participate in the clown's farcical welcome party too.

She stretched sleepily and reached out to tap her phone screen, silencing the birds. Her eyes closed again as she let out a long sigh, bracing herself for the day to come, and after a few more breaths she found the strength to pull herself out of bed and make her way to the bathroom where she turned on the shower and shed her pajamas, then stepped beneath the lukewarm spray.

The water was always lukewarm. Harley's building was supposed to be luxurious, or at least how the Crowne Group billed the development when she bought the apartment. Crowne Towers was part of an attempted regeneration project to clean up Gotham's East Side, an area of the city notorious for its unvarnished poverty. Obviously, 'regeneration' was code for 'gentrification', but it turned out that even if you built high-rise apartments next to a brand-new train station that got you to Midtown in less than 30 minutes, the upper echelons of Gotham society weren't interested in moving out of their Midtown penthouses or their Diamond District mansions.

This meant less than half of the building's apartments were occupied and its twin building, Crowne Tower 2, stood half-constructed and surrounded by cranes that hadn't worked in months right next door. But Harley didn't particularly mind living in a near-dystopian, half-empty high rise. She worked sixteen-hour days at Arkham and that same train to Midtown took her in the opposite direction to the Narrows just as quickly. Crowne Towers was the closest she could live to work without having to live in the Narrows itself. It had been the logical choice, and Harley always tried to do the logical thing.

After climbing out of the shower, she started her usual morning routine. Brushing her teeth, applying sunscreen and lip balm, and knotting her honey-blonde hair in a tight bun. She left a few pieces of hair loose, so she didn't look so much older than she was. More than once, friends accused her of presenting herself as a lonely librarian so she would be taken seriously in the professional world, but Harley insisted it wasn't intentional. She examined herself in the mirror, wondering if it was really  _that_  bad. Her face was heart-shaped, her cheekbones high, and some might call her nose button-like if they wanted to be on the receiving end of a withering glare. She'd once had a boyfriend describe her eyes as 'icy' blue just before he called her a cold-hearted bitch. If eyes were the windows to the soul, he'd said, then Harley was a glacier.

Harley wasn't really a cold-hearted bitch; she just didn't have the patience to deal with  _needy_  men.

Continuing with her routine, she confronted her closet next, full of neatly pressed gray and black slacks and an endless supply of white button-down shirts. This was her uniform: conservative, comfortable, professional. She slipped on a pair of leather loafers that fit the bill too, then moved into her kitchen.

Harley made herself a bowl of cereal and turned on the TV as she took a seat on the couch, a drab gray thing that had come with the apartment. It wasn't something she would pick out herself, but then again it was gray, and she seemed to have an affinity for the color. While she listened to the news talk about the Dent Act - they were  _always_  talking about Harvey Dent or the Dent Act - she scrolled through emails on her phone, keeping her ears open for any mention of the Joker's transfer to Arkham.

The MCU had gone above and beyond to make sure his transfer from Blackgate Prison wasn't leaked to the media. Apparently, the Joker had a history of slipping out of impossible situations. The police commissioner, Jim Gordon, even came down to Arkham the day before to prep senior staff. As if they didn't already deal with dangerous, psychotic criminals on a daily basis. Arkham's board of directors had passed around Non-Disclosure Agreements for the staff involved in his transfer, and Gordon had impressed upon them how serious it was that the transfer not only be kept a secret but that they interact with him as little as possible when he arrived.

The story was that he'd been kept in Blackgate's solitary confinement ward since he'd been captured - hanging by his ankle off a building site, no less - a month earlier. The MCU was getting nervous that the Joker was 'influencing' the guards and other prisoners, so they decided to put him somewhere more isolated. Since both the DA Harvey Dent and the Assistant DA Rachel Dawes had been killed in what the papers billed as the Joker's 'Reign of Terror', he still hadn't been officially charged with a crime and couldn't be transferred to federal prison or - as most of the city was calling for - Guantanamo Bay. That left Arkham, which City Hall deemed the safest place for him because of their experience dealing with violent psychopaths. But more importantly, their ability to drug inmates into submission.

Harley finished her cereal, listening to the panel of news pundits on Good Morning Gotham discussing the viability and legality of the Dent Act, which was expected to pass in the coming months. Blessedly, there was no mention of the Joker. Harley tidied away her bowl and grabbed her bag.

The elevator ride down from the sixth floor was always eerily silent. Each stop brought on more suited men and women on their way to Midtown, their eyes glued to their phones as they studiously ignored their neighbors. They reminded Harley of drones, all following orders from the queen to go to the same place at the same time to do their same job every day. She supposed she was one of them if she was honest with herself - a different job in a different part of town, but no less repetitive.

Sometimes her life felt like Groundhog Day. Each day a repetition of the one before. Arkham, gym, sleep, Arkham, gym, sleep and repeat until she died.

She tried not to think about that though. At least her work was interesting.

She walked with her neighbors to the station just as they did every morning, but once there Harley parted from the group. She turned left toward the South-bound platform instead of right towards the city like the rest of them.

The train arrived, nearly empty aside from two junkies and an old man in a trench coat. Harley took a seat closer to the junkies since she didn't feel like getting flashed first thing in the morning, a common occurrence on Gotham's rundown public transport.

Her thoughts drifted back to the Joker as the train pulled away from the station, and she felt a twinge of annoyance he would take up so much of her day when she had a mountain of work to get through for the new drug trials Arkham had been commissioned to carry out. Even during his so-called 'Reign of Terror' she hadn't given him much thought. He'd only ever terrorized the wealthy parts of Gotham in Midtown and the Diamond District, and even when he'd been blowing up hospitals, she felt safe in the Narrows. It was no doubt the most dangerous neighborhood in Gotham but because of poverty and addiction, not the organized crime and corruption that ran the rest of the city. Arkham had even taken on patients from Gotham General during the whole hospital debacle.

All that ended a month ago, but the media couldn't let the Joker go. Endless inches of ink were devoted to him in the Gotham Globe's opinion section, long-form features attempting to debunk him in the Gothamite, and worst of all Vicki Vale's salacious columns in the Gazette suggesting his return was imminent, using fear to sell papers.

Harley was of the opinion that the Joker was a narcissistic nihilist who didn't deserve the mental energy these people lavished on him.

When the metro stopped at Elizabeth Arkham Station, Harley and the junkies climbed off, and she directed her thoughts toward the drug trials she was preparing for. Arkham had hired her under the recommendation by Kane Company, the parent company of Elliot Pharmaceutical, who were paying Arkham a hefty sum to study the behavioral effects of their drugs on the inmates and report back. Three members of the Kane family sat on Arkham's board and Murphy Walsh, the asylum's new director, had readily agreed to the deal, installing Harley to run the trials. It stank of nepotism and corruption, but that was Gotham for you.

It was ironic that Walsh had been hired to replace Jonathan Crane, who had been testing his fear toxin on the inmates in Arkham's basement, and now Walsh was openly testing drugs on the inmates for cold hard cash. Turned out if you were criminally insane people didn't care if your consent was coerced or fabricated entirely. Too bad Crane hadn't gotten into bed with a pharmaceutical giant to make his toxin legitimate.

Harley waved at the security guard at Arkham's front gate, who offered her a friendly smile, which almost distracted from the ominous creaking of the gate swinging open on its ancient hinges. Arkham's Brutalist architecture might have been considered art once, but now it just looked dystopian and lifeless in the urban sprawl of the Narrows, the occasional wailing of an inmate doing nothing to cheer up its grim facade.

Unlike her apartment, Harley's office actually represented her character, or at least who she thought her character should be. Textbooks and reference guides lined the bookshelves, psychology journals were stacked on the therapist's couch against the back wall, a peaceful painting of water lilies hung over a bricked off fireplace. There was a large mahogany desk flanked by a pair of dramatic wingback chairs that had already been there when she arrived, but Harley wasn't the type to waste valuable time redecorating.

She sat down at her desk and brought up her schedule for the day. A morning of reading through the blood work that had come back on Joey Nash, a paranoid-schizophrenic who was being trialed on a new antipsychotic Elliot was developing. Trying to speak to him about his emotions was difficult, primarily due to Nash spending the first half of their sessions threatening to rape Harley in various creative ways. But he'd always get bored and eventually answer her questions in the end. The inmates always did. It wasn't like they had anyone else to talk to.

A smile split Harley's face when she saw she had a mid-morning session with Jonathan Crane, her pet project. Not a secret project. Maybe a  _little_  secret. She had known Crane at Gotham University when she was in her first year of post-grad and he was finishing his. She'd attended his lectures at GU and reached out to him for his notes on her dissertation after he'd already been hired as Arkham's director. He had been harsh in his assessment of her work, but that he bothered to read it at all said a lot. She'd even been in touch with him about a reference for her application to Arkham just before he'd... well, helped turned the Narrows into a psychotic hellhole and eventually got locked up in his own asylum...

Harley loaded up the nurse practitioner's notes on Nash's blood work and spent the next two hours making her own notes in the margins of a shared document to go over with Annie later. Bur her mind was drifting, drifting back to her last session with Crane when he had finally revealed the name of the person who'd made it possible for him to formulate the fear toxin. A person who had gotten in touch with Crane for his expertise in psychopharmacology. A man with a strange name.  _Ra's al Ghul._

They hadn't gotten far beyond that. Harley had to cut their last session short when one of her patients in C Wing had uncontrollable seizures thanks to a higher dose of the new Elliot drug.

But Harley still had many questions for Crane.

She slung on her white lab coat and locked her office door, heading for the staff room to get herself a cup of sludgy coffee before she went to see Crane. There she found the head nurse Rosa speaking in a low voice to one of the other Arkham doctors, Blakely. He was older than the rest, seventy-something with only a few wisps of gray hair hanging onto his head and an impressive set of jowls. Harley didn't understand why he didn't retire already. He'd been at the asylum for decades and had never even been considered for the directorship. Even Crane, who was some thirty plus years his junior had been advanced over Blakely. Be all that as it may, he was still one of the kinder, more supportive members of staff at Arkham, and Harley was glad he stuck around.

"Harleen," he greeted her, his lined face looking grim.

"Morning, Neville," she replied, pouring herself a cup of grainy black coffee. "How's Walsh holding up?" She smirked a little when Blakely sent her a disapproving look.

"I saw him this morning. He's doing as fine as he can be," Blakely told her pointedly. "Once he gets this admission interview with the Joker over with we can finally put him out of our minds for good."

"I cannot believe the board isn't taking Commissioner Gordon's advice that we skip the interview and just lock him up," Rosa shook her head. "If he was messing with the guards at Blackgate who knows what he'll do here!"

"Chavez's team are better prepared for cases like this," Blakely rationalized. "Gordon should trust us. And besides, we can't treat him differently than any other inmate. They all have their problems, but we work around them to keep everybody safe. We don't just ignore them."

Rosa left the staff room muttering to herself in Spanish, leaving Harley shaking her head while Blakely waited for her to add her two cents about the interview. The truth was, Harley didn't have an opinion. She just didn't  _care_  that much if they locked him up and threw away the key or tried to get him to talk.

"I have so much to do today," she complained to Blakely. "I don't have time to go  _greet_  the Joker. What about you?"

"A Wing," he replied, looking satisfied. "Walsh is weeding out the cases that can be taken to Blackgate. You?"

Harley sipped her coffee, considering her answer. "I'm seeing Crane now. B Wing later to follow up with the Elliot patients, and sometime in between I'm sure Walsh will drag us downstairs to watch the clown get admitted." She could see Blakely frowning at her out of the corner of her eye, and she scowled. "What?"

"I just don't understand your... relationship with Crane," he admitted at last. "It's like you're actually treating him for his condition..."

"It's been over a year, but there are still people in the Narrows suffering from the side effects of his fear toxin," Harley said, shifting uncomfortably. "He's the only one who knows how and why - I think it's worthwhile to find out."

It was only half a lie. Her motivation wasn't as pure as that.

"Well, if you're seeing him now maybe I'll sit in," Blakely offered. "If it's worthwhile."

"Oh," Harley grit her teeth, scrambling to find a lie to keep Blakely away from her patient. But he was already moving towards the exit and looking at her expectantly. Composing herself quickly, Harley followed with her clipboard tucked firmly under her arm so Blakely wouldn't be tempted to ask for a look at her notes.

They made their way to B Wing on the second floor where Crane was kept, Harley filling Blakely in on the prescription suggestions she'd made for Crane as they climbed ancient stone steps. She did not tell him she and Crane had discussed his medication plan together, or that Crane had twice requested she tweak the dosages and she had complied, eager to keep him happy, so he would continue to share things with her.

Neither did she tell Blakely that Crane had developed his compound from a blue flower only found in Tibet, sent to him by an anonymous source who later turned out to be this mysterious Ra's al Ghul she was so keen to know more about. Though it would seem she wouldn't be finding out today, she thought bitterly.

Harley swiped her security card against the clearance pad beside a sign reading J. CRANE 0218. The three steel bolts locking the door shot back with a  _CLANG,_ and the door swung open, revealing Jonathan Crane wearing an orange Arkham-issue jumpsuit and a pair of slippers. He was gazing out the small window his cell afforded him, lined with bars but still giving him a view of the grounds. He turned upon their entering, his pale eyes settled first on Harley, then narrowed to slits when they landed on Blakely.

"Neville," Crane acknowledged his former colleague with a sharp nod, his lips twisting into a sneer.

"Jonathan," Blakely replied warily, glancing at Harley who rolled her eyes at both of them and sat on the creaky cot in the corner, leaving the chair bolted to the floor for Blakely.

She could feel the judgy, incredulous look he was sending her over her seating choice but ignored him.

"How are you feeling, Jonathan?" She asked Crane, as he lowered himself onto the cot beside her, still eyeing Blakely warily.

"My cognition is better," he informed her, finally looking away from Blakely and meeting Harley's gaze. "You were right about the Lorazepam."

"Knew it," she chirped, making a note on her clipboard. She could tell Crane was about to launch into a conversation about the other meds she had him on, but she didn't especially think it was one to have in front of Blakely. "We can discuss your medication later," She said, sending him a significant look. "I have some questions about the fear toxin - would you mind?"

Crane's pale eyes darted to Blakely and then back to Harley, understanding where she was leading him. His upper lip twitched into a sneer that was almost a smile.

"Of course," he agreed.

They spent an hour going over the basics of Crane's fear toxin. The part of the brain it stimulated, the primal fear it induced, its ability to permanently damage the mind in high doses but only temporarily in less concentrated amounts. They had gone over all this before in the seven or eight weeks since Crane had been back at Arkham, but their conversations had recently progressed much further than the basics.

When their hour was up, Harley followed Blakely out of Crane's cell with what she called her Patient Smile plastered on her face. She was more than a little annoyed she hadn't gotten to ask Crane about Ra's al Ghul, and that she'd wasted one of her two hours a week with him thanks to Blakely's suspicious, and frankly intrusive presence.

"I don't see how any of that information will be helpful to the Narrows," Blakely commented once the cell's bars had locked into place and they were separated from Crane by five inches of solid steel.

Harley sighed in exasperation. "My job is to collect the data - any data we can get on that toxin is valuable."

"The toxin is gone, though," Blakely pointed out. "And Crane is in here, so he can't make any more of it."

Biting her tongue so as not to inform Blakely that actually, the toxin was still out there somewhere, Harley plastered on another patient smile and shrugged.

"Harleen, I have to say," Blakely removed his glasses and wiped them on his lab coat. "It's alarming to me that you would flatter a diagnosed Narcissist in a session."

Harley blanched. "Excuse me? I don't flatter him."

"You do," Blakely replied solemnly. "I understand, you're...  _manipulating_  him to get information that may be helpful. But it isn't good practice."

"Manipulating?" Harley looked back at the conversation she'd just had and tried to pinpoint where she'd been manipulative. It was something she'd been accused of before, more than once by teachers, friends... boyfriends especially. She knew she could get people to talk if she pushed the right buttons, it was what made her a good psychologist, but Harley hardly thought that qualified as manipulation of the sort Blakely was insinuating.

"I don't think you realize you do it," Blakely was eyeing her wearily now, concern creasing his forehead. "Like it's... an impulse."

"I disagree," Harley said sourly, resenting Blakely for interrupting her session with Crane and for suggesting there was something  _nefarious_  in how she conducted herself.

"Maybe I'm wrong," Blakely conceded, shrugging tiredly. "I need to get to A Wing. I'll see you downstairs after lunch."

Harley went about her day, as usual, meeting with Annie the nurse practitioner to discuss the inmates' blood work and making her way through the first round of test subjects to find out how they were coping with their new meds. Keeping the most dangerous and unstable men isolated, not just from the world but from each other, could make them remarkably eager to talk about their feelings to the only person willing to listen.

She ate a lunch of leftover Thai food in her office and soon enough it was 2pm and time to admit the Joker which Harley was on the verge of skipping even if Walsh would give her hell for it. Having the senior members of staff gather at the back entrance for his arrival was a ridiculous charade, its only purpose to prove to Gordon and the Mayor that they were making the right choice sending him to Arkham until the Dent Act passed or a new DA was elected. If they were bringing him to Arkham that meant they were out of options; there was no point in pretending otherwise.

The back end of Arkham was more modern and prison-like than its front entrance, with a steel barrier that would rise into the stone ceiling to allow the new inmate and his guards to enter the building. The inmate would then be led into a cell with steel bars where they would be searched, given an Arkham-issue jumpsuit, and officially handed into the asylum's custody. That's when the Arkham guards took over, moving the new inmate out of the cell and into the interrogation room for the admission interview. Usually, there was no need for an audience.

Harley was the last to arrive, taking her place between Walsh and Rosa, who was rubbing her arms like she was cold.

"You're late," Walsh snapped. He was a small man, in both stature and personality. Harley had never gotten along with him particularly well. He had a piggy face and wore wire-frame glasses she thought made him look like a pedophile.

"So's he," she bit back, checking her phone for new emails instead of engaging Walsh further.

Chavez's radio beeped, informing them that the MCU's SWAT team had arrived with the Joker, and when Chavez gave the order the external gate rattled noisily as it began to rise into the ceiling. Harley looked down the line of her colleagues, all of them stiff-jawed and doing a poor job of hiding their nerves. Rosa was clutching her elbows, Chavez was clenching his teeth so hard he looked liable to break them, Blakely was staring at the flagstone floor, and Walsh was blinking excessively. Even Annie, who had been a medic in Iraq, was shifting from one foot to the other anxiously.

The first internal gate opened, and Chavez's walkie squawked again, updating him that the MCU was signing the Joker over to Arkham while they searched him. It took maybe ten minutes for them to finish and Harley struggled not to check her phone while they waited. The board wanted all of them to watch the interview to get a sense of him from a safe distance. The entire world treated him like an evil genius capable of supernatural feats, but as far as Harley could see they were all playing right into his narcissistic hands.

Chavez's walkie squawked again, informing them that the Arkham guards would bring the Joker into the interrogation room. Harley folded her arms and waited, holding back from tapping her foot as the steel bars parted and six guards frog-marched a man into the hallway.

Harley's impatience quickly faded when he came into view, and as he moved closer, she could feel her expression soften. It wasn't the same man she'd seen in the papers, the monster with a painted face and green hair and gruesome scars, leering into the camera and relishing the attention. This man was tall and lanky, with broad shoulders and a mop of tangled dark-blonde hair brushing the collar of his newly issued Arkham scrubs. The scars were there but less horrific without the red paint; the skin puckering into a thin line that curved up his right cheek while the left was more of a mess, knotted from sloppy sutures, their stitch pattern forever seared into his face.

He looked tired, his eyes red-rimmed with dark circles beneath, and there was a splotchy bruise fading on his forehead. But all of that was superficial. What drew Harley's attention was the gleam in his eyes. It reminded her of a tiger, something intelligent and cruel glowing in the darkness as he allowed himself to be marched forward. That felt like a salient observation - that he was  _allowing_  it.

As they moved him past the line of Arkham staff, Harley watched him glower at her colleagues, all of them looking away while she continued to stare openly. She could feel her eyeballs drying out from not blinking, and her heart began to thump distractingly hard in her chest. When he passed her, she met his gaze and held it, and she could see the moment his attention on her shifted from passing to lingering. They watched each other as he was marched past her, and one side of his mouth slid up in a roguish grin that made Harley's pulse leap in her throat.

Even after he'd gone too far for her to see his face, she couldn't stop staring at the back of his head, the impression of his dark eyes on her burned into her brain. Then the guards unlocked the interrogation room, and he turned to look over his shoulder, searching for Harley among the group. A shiver skated over her skin when their eyes met again, and she knew instinctively that the curious glint she could see in his eyes was matched in her own.

* * *

"Dios mio," Rosa swore, running her hands up and down her arms as the door to the interrogation room slammed shut. "I feel like a goose just walked over my grave."

Harley understood what she meant, but she wasn't sure she and Rosa had had the same experience watching the Joker be escorted past. Now that he was gone, Rosa was relieved while Harley felt strangely numb and drained and confused more than anything. Like she'd just been sucked through a wind turbine and thrown out the other side.

"Come on," Walsh said gruffly, gesturing for them to follow him into the observation room. There was a light sheen of sweat on his forehead, and he was still blinking his piggy eyes rapidly. "Let's get this over with."

Harley shoved her hands into her lab coat pockets and followed Walsh, keeping her head down as she tried to collect her thoughts. She had just had a strange reaction to a strange man, and now she felt rattled. She decided it was because she hadn't prepared herself for such an overwhelming presence. Psychopaths were frequently big personalities that required personal preparation, and in this instance, she had been arrogant and not done her due diligence. That was all it was.

But his presence had been  _suffocating_ , like he'd invaded every corner of the corridor, sucking up all the oxygen. When they'd met each other's eyes, there had been something there that drew Harley in, and now all she wanted to do was to look him in the eye again so she could rationally understand why her heart was still hammering away.

Harley kept her head down as Rosa, Annie and Blakely crowded into the observation room with her, wishing Walsh good luck before he pompously pushed through the door leading into interrogation. She knew she was acting ridiculous and exhaled a calming breath before raising her head so she could watch the interview from behind a two-way mirror.

"Hello," Walsh greeted stiffly, his voice crackling over the intercom. "I'm Dr Walsh, the director of Arkham Asylum."

The Joker had been placed in a chair at one end of the steel table, watching with mild interest as Walsh crossed the room and sat across from him. His hands were cuffed and bound to the table; his feet chained to the floor similarly. Behind him stood Chavez and a new guard called Fogerty, both of them standing with their arms positioned military-style behind them while they glared at the back of the Joker's head.

Walsh coughed awkwardly and opened a file that contained all the information they had on the Joker - which wasn't much - and the admission interview form.

"So..." Walsh started, but before he could get out his first question, the Joker had hunched down, so his chest was against the table. He pillowed his chin on his cuffed fists, and his mouth spread into a wide, camp grin that made his eyes crinkle up at the corners.

 _"Soooooo_ ," he purred back, making Walsh sputter stupidly.

"You refused to give your real name to the GCPD," he said once he'd recovered himself. "Thus far they have not been unable to find a record of your real identity." As Walsh spoke the Joker closed his eyes and nodded along agreeably, making Walsh falter again. "I, uh, this is your chance to tell us your real name..." When the Joker just cocked his head to the side and squinted, Walsh hesitated. "So... if you'd like to..."

" _Oh_. Uh, sure! Let me spell it for you," the Joker's eyes were on the paperwork in front of Walsh now. Walsh seemed taken aback but raised his pen nonetheless. "It's T-H-E...  _space..._  J..."

Harley had to admit, she dd enjoy watching Walsh getting fucked with.

"Sir, we will not be calling you by this... persona you have developed," Walsh blustered. "They may have indulged you at Blackgate, but if you don't give us a name, you will be referred to as patient 0801 for the duration of your stay."

The Joker sniffed innocuously and sat back in the chair, his arms stretched out in front of him, somehow giving the impression of a king lounging on his throne instead of a prisoner chained to a table.

"Catchy," he drawled, his eyes drifting beyond Walsh to the mirror. His tongue darted out to lick the scar bisecting his bottom lip, and even though it was irrational, Harley felt - really  _really_  felt - that he could see her through the double glass, or at least was picturing her there.

"Let's move on," Walsh said shortly. "We have your height as six foot two, your weight as 190 pounds. I assume you're happy with those numbers?"

The Joker shrugged, still gazing at the mirror, and Walsh made a note.

"Jesus," Blakely grumbled. "It's like he can see right through the glass. What's he looking for?"

"He can't," Harley insisted, still feeling much like he was looking for her. "He's not an idiot. He knows we're back here."

"Your date of birth?" Walsh was asking, and the Joker took his time answering, letting his head fall back, so he could stare at the ceiling like he was deep in thought, then sitting up straight and rocking his head from side to side before he finally laid his eyes on Walsh again.

"27 November 1960," he said coldly, a nasty little smile forming on his mouth, one that didn't reach his eyes.

"I- what? Hold on," Walsh sputtered. "That's  _my_  birthday. How the hell do you know my birthday!"

"Shit," Harley heard Annie mumble under her breath.

"Well," the Joker began thoughtfully, folding one large hand neatly over the other on top of the table. "I can kinda... read minds..."

There was a stunned silence on both sides of the mirror, the Joker's face the picture of innocence as he watched Walsh try to digest what he'd said.

"You... can read minds," Walsh said, at last, sounding both worried and skeptical.

"Well, it's  _complicated_ ," the Joker lifted his hands to gesture as best he could with limited mobility. "I hear these _voices_ , ya know? Sometimes it's like they tell me uh, like  _information_. So I think the voices are really a uh," he rotated his hand thoughtfully in midair as he spoke. "A manifestation of my psychic powers, ya know? Like a  _coping_  mechanism."

"Interesting that you told none of the psychologists at Blackgate about these voices," Walsh pushed back, irritation that he was being toyed with creeping into his voice.

"Maybe a guy doesn't wanna go around telling people about hearing voices," the Joker replied smoothly, "But I gotta tell you, Murphy, I feel like I can  _trust_  you."

"I see," Walsh said stiffly, sounding unnerved. "Let's move on. Who is your next of kin?"

"Uh, I don't know how easy it's gonna be to get a hold of him but, uh... here, lemme spell it," he suggested eagerly. "It's B - A - T - M - A - N."

The sound of Walsh's pen hitting the tabled rattled through the intercom, followed by an indignant huff. "Batman is your next of kin?"

"Yeah," the Joker replied blankly.

"Very well," Walsh blustered, his voice taking on a shrill, feminine quality that always meant he was at the end of his rope. "Let's move on to—"

The Joker abruptly giggled under his breath. His eyes widened as his lips pressed together and his shoulders hunched up like he was trying to smother the laughter building in his chest. Then suddenly his body spasmed, his head flew back, and a hysterical, inhuman howl ripped its way out of his throat. It was the sound from the TV, the sound his surviving victims described. It was chilling and cruel, and when he flung himself forward with another hoarse cackle, Walsh jumped out of his chair and stumbled backward, landing on his ass.

Chavez and Fogerty darted forward to restrain the Joker just as a swarm of armed guards flooded the interrogation room. From where Harley was standing she couldn't see who stabbed the Joker with a hypodermic needle full of tranquilizer, but when the swell of guards moved back the Joker was no longer attached to the table, and his limp body was being dragged from the room.

Once the room was clear, Annie and Rosa rushed forward to help Walsh, who was still sitting on the floor clutching his wrist to his chest. Harley and Blakely hung back in observation, their arms crossed and their lips pursed, both of them thinking the same thing, both of them feeling vastly different about it.

"I guess it'll be one of us finishing his interview," Blakely said weakly, doing a poor job of hiding that he didn't want to be the one to do it. "There's no way Murphy will go back in with him after that."

Harley refrained from speaking yet. She didn't know what to make of the fact that she was  _thrilled_  about the prospect of taking over for Walsh.

Rosa and Annie ushered Walsh up to the infirmary on the second floor, taking the stairs because no one used the rickety death trap elevators anymore, while Harley and Blakely trailed after them at a distance. Harley's heavy workload was now the farthest thing from her mind, and it seemed Blakely was in a similar mood as they stood in the infirmary watching Annie prod Walsh's arm and hand.

"That bastard broke my arm!" Walsh huffed indignantly.

"Sprained, maybe," Annie corrected. "Can you move your fingers?"

Walsh scowled and wiggled his chubby fingers. "Did you hear the sounds that came out of him? He's inhuman! My God, they really need to cart him off to Guantanamo Bay."

"I just hope to God they pass this Dent Act soon," Rosa groaned, crossing herself.

"You're damn right, Rosa," Walsh blustered. "He attacked me! Did you see that?"

Harley was about to point out that Walsh had fallen over, not been attacked, but then she spotted the folder with the Joker's interview form and background information on the infirmary bed beside her blustering boss. She nipped forward to pluck it up and plastered on her most calm, professional frown as she began to read. There were notes from six psychologists who'd been to see him while he was at Blackgate, and as Harley read the notes, even Walsh's indignant grousing faded to white noise in the background.

All six psychologists agreed that he was anti-social, narcissistic, pathologically untruthful, and lacking empathy. A psychopath, in other words. In terms of diagnosis, they all disagreed somewhat. Two thought he was a paranoid schizophrenic, a third claimed he was bipolar, two more saw signs of acute past trauma, and the last didn't give any opinion. She'd been attacked during their session and had to be taken to hospital for a broken nose and a concussion before she'd delivered a report.

"None of this is right," Harley complained, drawing Walsh's attention.

"What on earth are you saying, Quinzel?" He huffed.

"He doesn't hear voices, and he's not bipolar. He seems cognitively sound and like he's in control of his faculties."

"Did you hear the sounds he made!" Walsh blustered.

"I did," Harley replied flatly. "He was obviously trying to scare you. And it worked."

An awkward ripple passed through the room as Walsh glared at Harley. Rosa made an excuse about needing to get back to the nurse's station, and Annie kept her attention on fitting Walsh's wrist in a brace.

Harley shut the file and leveled Walsh with an impassive look. "I'll finish the interview," she announced.

Walsh laughed bitterly. "You will, will you?"

"I assume now you're injured," Harley replied drily. "That you'll be passing the interview over to Blakely or me to complete."

"Neville," Walsh nodded at Blakely, his tone spiteful. "You'll be finishing the interview with him. Quinzel doesn't have the experience needed to deal with a patient like him."

Harley's cheeks grew hot, and she had to bite her tongue to keep herself from saying something she'd regret. Her insufficient 'experience' was Walsh's favorite excuse to use when he wanted to control her, and nothing made her as angry as that. She was young, yes, but she was more than capable, and the only reason he was keeping her from the Joker now was that she'd wounded his pride.

Blakely reluctantly waded into the argument. "I'm sure Harleen can handle it if she..."

"No she can't," Walsh snapped, clambering to his feet with Annie's help. "Neville, you'll complete the interview. That's final."

Annie shot Harley an apologetic look as she helped Walsh out of the infirmary. As if falling on his ass and spraining his wrist meant he wasn't able to get back to his office on his own. And Harley sucked in a shaky breath to calm herself down.

"Fine," she said shortly, holding the Joker's file out to Blakely.

"What's changed your mind about him?" He asked warily, accepting the file and tucking it under his arm.

Harley licked her lips, a perfect picture of the Joker searching for her behind the two-way mirror forming in her mind's eye.

"His... mannerisms," she said haltingly, another half-truth. She'd already begun cataloging each of the small but fascinating ways his face moved when he was emoting - playing coy, unimpressed, triumphant, bored. "He's more interesting than I gave him credit for."

Blakely's forehead creased unhappily. "I thought this might happen," he admitted. "That you would... take an interest in him."

Harley knew he was thinking about her relationship with Crane and felt a twinge of annoyance that Blakely was so goddamn judgmental about what cases she did and did not pursue. He was less openly antagonistic about it than Walsh, but in his own stodgy grandfatherly way, he was just as controlling and infuriating. It was beyond the pale that Harley had to answer to either of them when she was their peer and equal. She was a celebrated psychologist, published more times in the last year than either of them combined. It made her  _so_  angry that she had to stop herself from snarling outright.

"That isn't any of your business, Neville," she snapped brusquely, knocking the file out of his hands with her elbow as she brushed past him.

She wanted to go back to her office to think in quiet about what she was feeling, but she had deadlines to meet and patients to see, so she pushed on with her day. The interviews with the inmates on Elliot drugs seemed to take longer than they usually did, and Harley's mind continued to drift. First and foremost to the Joker's eyes. Not just when he looked at her, but at the exact moment he saw her,  _acknowledged_  her. Then there was the way he taunted Walsh - it had been smart and devious, and far more intellectually rewarding to listen to than any of the dribble her patients shared. And on top of all this, she couldn't get past the very real, human,  _male_  quality in him that was so lacking in the cartoonish macabre he presented to the world.

She needed to know more.

After her final Elliot trial of the day, Harley skipped her usual ritual of painstakingly entering the data she'd collected into her computer. Instead, she paced back and forth in front of the fireplace in her office, smoothing back loose pieces of hair coming free from her bun as she tried to decide what to do. There was a strong but unsavory impulse to convince Blakely to let her take over the interview. It wouldn't be hard, but it would be a slightly heavy-handed move, and she didn't want to admit to herself that she wanted to talk to the Joker that badly.

Then she remembered that Commissioner Gordon had given her his card with his personal number scribbled on the back, and she frantically dug the card out of her desk. After she'd typed the number into her cell phone, she reflected on what she was doing, making sure it was legitimate and that she wasn't acting impulsively. She still felt a little off-kilter, that feeling of being thrown through a wind turbine sticking with her. But she was a doctor of psychology at an institution currently housing the Joker. It was perfectly reasonable to ask the police commissioner for more information.

It was perfectly legitimate.

* * *

Harley met Commissioner Gordon in the reception area of the MCU, trying to focus on shaking his hand instead of the fact that all the building's windows were covered by plastic tarps waving in the early autumn breeze.

"We still can't afford to get those fixed," Gordon admitted with a tired sigh. "City Hall is tight with the purse strings at the moment. We're just one of many Joker clean up projects that need to be funded."

"The Joker did this?" Harley frowned, watching as a beat cop sat across from his partner at a desk beside one of the open windows.

"Come on, let's talk in my office," Gordon said and showed Harley down a short hallway that led past two interrogation rooms and at the end, a decent sized but messy office.

"How did it go today?" He asked once Harley had been offered coffee and positioned in one of the mismatched chairs facing the desk.

"Not well," Harley admitted. "But not terrible either. He baited Walsh, scared him into tripping over his own feet, and that was the end of it."

"That's pretty low caliber for the Joker," Gordon said, looking concerned. He'd already made it clear that he thought taking the Joker to Arkham was a terrible idea, and Harley couldn't blame him. They didn't have the best track record.

"Walsh showed fear," Harley said simply. "He jumped on it."

Gordon nodded like he knew all too well what watching that scene unfold would look like. "And how can I help you, Dr Quinzel? Our understanding is Arkham won't be treating the Joker. He'll simply be held at your institution for the time being."

"Of course," Harley agreed quickly. "I'm here more for... my peace of mind, I suppose. I need to understand him if I can."

"Understanding the Joker," Gordon shook his head. "I don't know if I can help you there. Did you read the court psychologists' notes?"

"All of them are wrong," Harley rolled her eyes and Gordon's eyebrows arched in surprise. She scrambled to fix her misstep: "I mean, I disagree professionally. What little I saw of him today, he seemed in control of his emotions, very aware of what he's saying and the meaning behind it. Even when he... he laughed, you know _, that_  laugh. It was deliberate."

Gordon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Part of what makes him so difficult to pin down - what made him so hard to catch - is how capable he is," he explained. "I don't know if it will give you peace of mind to know that I still feel like I'm three steps behind the Joker even though he's been in custody for a month."

Harley nodded solemnly. "Maybe you could tell me... when you first met him, how did he make you feel?"

"How did he make me feel?" Gordon sat back in his chair and ran a hand over his jaw. "Angry. Scared for my family and the city... The first time we caught him, he set us up. He wanted to get caught. I sat across from him thinking, I've got you, you sonofabitch, you're done. But he was exactly where he wanted to be, and things only got worse. My advice to you, Dr Quinzel, is never to underestimate him and most of all don't forget," he leaned forward, his face hardening. "He can get in your head. Even without bombs or guns or his goons, he is dangerous enough just having a tongue in his head."

Harley's eyes widened, not expecting such a candid answer. She hadn't realized how personal it had gotten between Gordon and the Joker, and as she watched Gordon withdraw an USB stick from his desk, she couldn't help thinking Gordon may as well have been selling the same story the papers were. That the Joker was some sort of evil wizard capable of impossible feats when he was just a man.

She accepted the USB stick quietly, feeling she'd asked enough of the Commissioner for one night. He walked her out of the station and told her to call if she had any questions or insight, and Harley thanked him before she headed for the metro. When she got home it was late, but not as late as she usually finished at Arkham. She ordered Chinese - enough to feed her for lunch the next day too - and turned on  _Real Housewives of Gotham_  as she loaded the USB stick onto her laptop.

Multiple zipped files appeared on the screen, the first titled "A/V External," which contained two video files dated to August. Harley muted the TV -  _Real Housewives of Gotham_  stars Dolly Dumas and Bernadette Crowne were currently fighting over a Prada bag - before she selected the first video. The frozen image made goosebumps raise up on her arms. It was a close-up shot of the Joker, his face paint smeared, his eyes hooded, his teeth bared. She started the video, and his voice washed over her, mocking and cruel as he taunted a man dressed up as the Batman against the backdrop of a meat locker.

 _"LOOK AT ME,"_  he demanded, something almost demonic in his voice before he swung back to playfully scolding Gotham for trusting the Batman and insisting he reveals his true identity.

She played the video again and unzipped another file, this one full of the administrative documents that painted a much larger picture when viewed together. Witness statements, warrants, crime scene profiles, police reports for a constellation of arrests, including two for the Joker, both of which contained copies of his fingerprints, DNA profile and details of each arrest. The clothes he wore featured prominently in both like the arresting officers couldn't get past  _"custom, no labels, 'violet' suit jacket, overcoat, and pants; 'emerald' vest; 'lavender' shirt."_

There were also mugshots. One set from the night he'd attacked the MCU in full face paint, the hint of a grin on his face. The second was from his admission to Blackgate, minus the paint, but plus a lot of facial bruising. He looked less entertained in the second photo, and different from how she remembered him looking earlier that day in both of them.

She'd played the video of the Joker taunting Brian Douglas about twenty times by then and switched to the second video. This was taken from a GCN broadcast interrupted by the Joker. He spoke about the mob, about the Batman, and called for the people of Gotham to murder Coleman Reese. Harley remembered that one. Ordering citizens to hunt down their fellow man had cut through even her extreme ambivalence toward the Joker.

She kept reading while the video played on a loop. Under victims, they'd broken down the list into crime scenes, of which there was one almost daily for the two-week-long 'Reign of Terror.' Before that, there had been multiple bank robberies attributed to him, and before that, armed robbery and homicides. All of it stemmed back a year earlier when Joker cards began appearing at crime scenes. Before that, there was nothing.

The next zipped folder she opened looked like a long-running investigation, and after squinting at a few pages of legal documents, Harley realized it was a City Hall investigation into something called the 'Falcone Crime Family.' The same names kept appearing, names Harley didn't recognize: Salvatore Maroni; Fyodor "The Chechen" Dimitrov; Michael Gambol Jr.; Tomaso Panessa; Santo Cassamento; Franco Bertinelli; Mickey Sullivan.

Harley set the laptop aside and smoothed back a few loose strands of hair from her bun as she considered the story these documents helped create. A man who appeared out of nowhere to terrorize the city. And his motivation? Still unknown, hence the opinion columns of the Gotham Globe and Vicki Vale's weekly diatribes.

It was now well past midnight, but Harley knew she'd never sleep. She pulled on her tennis shoes and some leggings and headed back down to the lobby before taking off into the night. She ran and ran, turning over what she'd learned in her head and feeling foolish for finding the Joker so compelling. Now she knew almost everything the police knew, and it should have been enough. She told herself that was enough as she sprinted down the street, her blood pounding in her ears.

* * *

The next morning at Arkham, Harley was running on black coffee and fumes. She'd arrived early enough to finish all the work for Elliot she'd put off the night before and read almost every Gotham Globe article on the Joker by the time Blakely arrived. She waited for him outside his office, a file full of print-outs tucked under her arm as she rocked back on her heels.

"Morning, Neville," Harley beamed when Blakely arrived, looking dog-tired and disgruntled.

He frowned as he unlocked his office. "My granddaughter looks at me like that when she wants money. What's going on, Harleen?"

"I don't want anything," Harley reassured Blakely, following him into his office. "I went to see Jim Gordon last night, and he gave me some helpful background from their investigation. The Joker wasn't on their radar at all until the Batman showed up."

"Everyone knows that," Blakely sighed, exchanging his jacket for his lab coat. "Freaks in masks breed freaks in masks."

"It's nowhere near that simple," Harley insisted, pushing the file into Blakely's hands. "Greg Olsen at the Globe has this incredible theory that the Joker is a vet suffering from PTSD. And Steve Lombard at the Gothamite thinks he might be ex-CIA. And Vicki Vale thinks..."

"Harleen," Blakely ran a hand over his tired eyes. "We don't need to find out his life story, just the most basic facts about his mental health history."

"He will not answer your questions," Harley pushed back. "He's a pathological liar - you can't just be straight with him."

"If he lies that's what I'll write," Blakely shrugged. "My job will be done, and we can all move on."

Harley pursed her lips unhappily and watched Blakely slump away down the hall.

If he thought she would drop it, he was sorely mistaken.

A few hours later she was loitering outside the session room in D Wing, making small talk with a guard called Kelly who had been present when they'd locked the Joker in his cell the night before. The guards' reactions to him seemed to be split— half of them were pissed off, half of them were terrified. They'd put him in a straitjacket when he'd been drugged to make moving him from his cell to the session room easier—and less scary—for everyone.

"Harleen," Blakely said flatly when he saw Harley waiting for him. "What are you doing here?"

"I was thinking about how you should approach this," she said quickly. "The Batman. That's how you get him to talk."

"Thank you, Harleen. I'll take it under advisement," Blakely sighed as he swiped his ID card over the keypad and the door's locking mechanisms slammed back.

Harley should have left then, but she lingered instead, asking Kelly mundane questions about the staff parking lot until the stomp of multiple pairs of boots echoed down the corridor. Kelly jumped into position, his hands folded behind his back, and Harley tried to compose herself, crossing her arms over her chest and attempting to convey impassive calm as the guards marched the Joker toward them.

He was looking worse for wear. Overnight he'd developed an angry black eye and the straitjacket they'd put him in looked a size too small on his wiry frame. His face was composed in the same bored, sleepy guise he'd worn the last time he'd been frogmarched around Arkham. Like his mind was far away on something far more important than what was currently being forced upon him.

Then he spotted Harley, and she felt rather than saw his eyes roll over her, examining her from head to toe before finally landing on her face. Their eyes connected again, and she felt her pulse leap just as it had before. But she hardened herself to it, determined to be clinical and not emotional as they eyed each other warily, right until he stepped over the threshold of the session room and the guards forced him to turn away.

When the door shut again, Harley continued to stare past it, imagining his face as Chavez and Hassan chained his feet to the floor. She licked her lips, fighting the urge to linger until the session was over, and after a few false starts, she bid Kelly farewell and headed back to her office.

* * *

The next morning, Harley found herself in Walsh's office with Blakely, the three of them listening to the recording of Blakely's session with the Joker from the previous afternoon.

He taunted Blakely, just as he had Walsh, but this time there was something decidedly sinister and vastly more personal in his verbal attacks. Blakely physically paled listening to the interview veer off from his attempts to engage the Joker about his family history to reverse questioning about Blakely's own family and a monologue about how easy it was to pull out a child's baby teeth. And when Blakely asked, in horror, why someone would pull out a child's teeth, the Joker simply responded: "Uh...  _dental_  records apply to the kids too, Doc."

"That wasn't very productive," Walsh complained when the tape had finished. "Jesus, Neville, you can't just let him railroad you like that."

Blakely was looking gray in the face as he said, "I think Harleen should finish the interview. He knows I have grandchildren, and he won't let that go."

"No," Walsh spat impatiently, shooting Harley a bitter look. "Quinzel hasn't got enough experience to deal with someone like this, and we can't just keep rotating doctors. It gives him power!"

Blakely tried to finish the Joker's interview again that afternoon, and the next day they had a similar meeting in Walsh's office. This time Blakely argued—with more energy than Harley had ever seen him exert before—that he was uncomfortable putting himself through another round of interrogation by the Joker about his grandchildren.

"Harleen is more than capable, Murphy," he insisted, twin pink spots appearing on his weathered cheeks.

"No!" Walsh said again. "Goddammit, Neville, grow some balls."

The third morning was a similar story. They listened back to the interview, which quickly devolved beyond the point of no return with Blakely begging the Joker to stop talking about his family and fleeing the room before the session had finished.

"I'll do it," Harley announced over the sound of the tape hissing when it appeared no one else would say something. "Let me do it," she gave Walsh a smile she hoped was eager and a little beguiling, something to make him feel good about himself for passing the case on to her.

"You let him get in your head, Neville," Walsh complained, looking disgusted and apparently forgetting they'd seen his session with the Joker. "He picked up a thread and ran with it, and you didn't try to stop him."

"Harleen is exceptionally good at getting inmates to talk," Blakely said calmly, ignoring Walsh's criticism. "We should give her a shot."

"Fine," Walsh snapped, throwing his hands up. "Fine. Christ alive! Quinzel, you better get him to talk."

* * *

Harley did not allow herself to feel triumphant about the fact that she was interviewing the Joker. She prepared as she would have for any other inmate, re-reading her notes and deciding on her line of questioning carefully. But unlike with other patients, when she went to the gym that night to train, she thought of nothing except how she would have responded to the sly, destabilizing way he'd handled Blakely. And when she got ready for work, the next morning it was with a sense of deliberately not putting any more or less effort than she usually did into how she looked.

It could be argued he was already in her head, but that just meant she had to be extra careful around him, and that meant strategy.

The first half of her day was a wash. She got virtually nothing done while waiting for the clock to tick over to 2 PM. Rosa gave her a pep talk at lunch, telling her she was a better doctor than Blakely and Walsh combined—something Harley agreed with her on—and wouldn't let the Joker get to her like they did.

Harley wasn't worried about that. She didn't scare easily, and she certainly had a stronger stomach than her older colleagues. But she was nervous about how thoroughly the Joker had consumed her thoughts since the moment she laid eyes on him. She could only hope after a few sessions spent teasing out some details that would help her understand him, her curiosity would be satiated.

Under all the theatrics and odd looks, he was just a psychopath. And Harley was an expert on psychopaths.

She gathered her notes and headed for D Wing, running a little late intentionally. Kelly and Hassan were standing guard outside the session room, having already deposited the Joker inside. Kelly gave her a supportive thumbs up while Hassan frowned grimly, and Harley nodded at both of them as she swiped her ID card against the keypad.

The buzzer rang _\- WAHHHH_  - and the locking bolts slammed back, then the heavy door swung open for Harley.

The Joker was waiting for her at the square steel table in the middle of the room; his head cocked to the side as he tongued the inside of his bottom lip and pretended to hide a smirk.

"Oh," he cooed, the smirk sliding firmly into place. "I was  _hoping_  they'd send you."

* * *

**A/N: There you have it. I hope you keep reading! We won't be stuck at Arkham for long...**

**Updates on Sundays. 32 chapters, so buckle up.**

**Please comment and review! xo**

 


	2. Chapter 2

The Harlequin

2.

* * *

"Oh," he cooed, the right side of his mouth curling up in a nastily little smirk. "I was _hoping_  they'd send you."

Harley aimed for impassive as she sat down across from the Joker at the table. She quickly arranged her notes to her left and set the tape recorder between them, not wanting to seem like she was stalling, and once she turned the recorder on she sat back and looked at him, purposely making eye contact. He was already staring at her, prodding the inside of his cheek - his  _scars_  - with his tongue as he studied her.

"Hello, I'm Dr Harleen Quinzel," she said calmly, refusing to look away even as he narrowed his eyes curiously at her. Like he was trying to read her mind. She reorientated her focus to the rest of his face, leaving aside those unsettling eyes, and she was surprised by what she saw. His jaw was sharp, his bone structure classically patrician, his top lip well-formed even if the bottom had been butchered. In fact, once you took some time to look past the scars and the bruising, especially without the war paint contouring him into a ghoul, it became apparent he was young and... attractive.

Objectively.

 _"Harleen_ , hmm?" He purred, his head tipping to the side. "I bet your friends call you...  _Harley..._  "

Harley blinked hard twice, too taken aback to stop herself from reacting. "That's right," she said evenly.

She hadn't gone by Harley since she was twenty-one years old. No one called her Harley anymore. She was published as Harleen, her colleagues knew her as Harleen, she hadn't spoken to anyone who had known her as Harley in years. That meant he must have guessed. And wow, guessing her childhood nickname sure had been effective.

Harley tried not to let her irritation show, but in her head, she imagined a scoreboard. The Joker, 1. Harley, 0.

"Well, now we're all acquainted," she said sarcastically, not  _quite_  professionally. "Let's talk about you."

"Oh,  _sure,_ " he gushed, sitting up straight and wiggling his shoulders like he was dying to gesture with his hands. "I'm an open book, doc."

"Great," Harley crossed her arms and sat back in her chair, keeping her expression impassive. "Let's talk about your scars."

"Ohohoho," he licked his lips, the corners of his mouth curling up deviously. "Come on, doc. Ya gotta work for it just a  _little_  bit... dontcha think?"

"Why?" Harley's shoulders bounced in a dispassionate shrug. "You've got plenty of stories." She glanced down at her notepad and cleared her throat dramatically. "Your mother was a drunk and cut you when you were a child. Your father was a gambler, and you were punished to pay his debts. You did it to _yourself_  to make your wife love you. Oh,  _you_  were the drunk and did it to yourself after your son was murdered... I see a common thread here."

His eyes were glittering with interest, and he had pulled his bottom lip into his mouth, sucking on it thoughtfully as he watched her talk, like he was watching something  _fascinating_.

Harley ignored him. "I'm seeing that these are all... personal stories of fathers and mothers and wives and children. I have a theory."

He lifted his eyebrows, encouraging her to go on.

"I don't think you've ever had parents or children or a wife," she said confidently, though she was  _wildly_  speculating which was  _extremely_  unprofessional. "I think this was done to you as punishment for something you did. But," she pointed at him, and his eyes widened further. "Because you are a pathological narcissist, the idea that  _you_  could have done something wrong and deserve to be punished for it, it doesn't really register for you." She rotated her hands around her ears, feigning sympathy for him with a sad little smile. "Now, don't worry, I don't expect you to comprehend that second part. Because of your pathology... your brain just won't accept it. But tell me what you think.  _Enlighten_  me."

He continued to stare at her, and there was a gleam in those disconcerting eyes she couldn't decipher, but she felt goosebumps rise up on the backs of her arms trying to maintain eye contact.

 _"Wow_ ," he said at length, his mouth twitching after he uttered the syllable. "You're a little...  _different_ , aren't ya."

Harley focused on keeping her face perfectly neutral, trying not to react.

"Kind of...  _rebellious_ ," he continued, eyeing her thoughtfully. "Like you've had to  _fight_  for everything. Every... single... thing... you had to rip it away from someone else. Hmm?"

Harley suddenly became hyper-aware of the tape recorder, and that she would listen to this with Walsh and Blakely the next morning. She didn't want  _either_  of them to hear the Joker speculate on her background.

"Let's talk about -"

" _You're_  an overachiever, aren't ya?" He smirked caddishly at her like he knew  _exactly_  what she was thinking about, and who  _exactly_  would be listening. "And overachievers are always trynna prove somethin' to somebody, or even to  _everyone._  So what is it you're trynna prove, doc?" His eyes swept over her, lingering on her neck before he met her gaze again. "Let's face it, beneath all that  _gray_  you're pretty easy on the eyes. Is it you don't want people to think that's all there is? Just a  _hot_  little blonde without a brain in her head?"

"That's very poor psychoanalysis," Harley replied, fighting a sneer. "I'm attractive and blonde. Therefore, I have to prove myself."

 _"Ah,"_  he said knowingly, a complacent smile dancing on his lips. "So it's the  _other_  thing."

Harley's eyes narrowed, but she left it open for him to speak.

 _"Orphan._ " He said it like an accusation, and the word seemed to echo around the small room. " _Attractive_  orphan with a thing for  _murderers_. That, to _me_ ," And here he started to imitate the condescending tone she'd used to analyze him. "Indicates some uh...  _emotional_  issues... add in the rebellious streak, and I'd say you're not going to _therapy_  for those issues. Even though you've broken into the  _majestic_  land of the  _middle class_  and all your _friends..._  Hang on... not  _many_  friends. You're all about the  _job_... But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's talk about what happened to mommy and daddy..."

Harley didn't say anything.

"Oh,  _I_  know. Can we talk about what your  _boyfriends_  think about these  _emotional_  problems?"

Harley checked her watch. "That's a shame," she sighed, standing and gathering her notes and the tape recorder which she turned off.

He narrowed his eyes at her sourly, like she'd cut his playtime short, which was precisely what she'd done.

"We spent too much time talking about me," she shrugged helplessly. "I was hoping we could talk about the Batman."

He licked his lips, serpent-like, and Harley knew she had his attention.

"And maybe Harvey Dent," she added. "Unless you find both of them...  _boring._ "

She sent him a sidelong look and left the session room, her heart suddenly pounding like it was trying to jump out of her chest.

* * *

The next morning Harley woke to the sounds of birds singing sweetly as she always did, but her eyelids refused to open, and her head felt stuffed full of cotton from not sleeping well. She'd stayed at the asylum even later than she usually did, obsessively replaying the tape of her session with the Joker. She wasn't happy with how it had gone, and she was dreading listening to it with Walsh and Blakely, mainly because Walsh was going to fucking love hearing her get dragged to pieces.

That the Joker had correctly deduced  _multiple_  aspects of her background was unnerving. There was no way he could know she'd lost her parents when she was young, but somehow he'd been able to lay it out as a fact. Emotional issues... not _quite_  on the money, but definitely close enough. And she had most  _certainly_  fought hard for everything she'd achieved in her young life. You didn't grow up in foster homes and end up with a PhD without some blood, sweat, and tears along the way.

As she'd gotten ready for bed the night before, following her nighttime routine to a tee, she stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, wondering if she was that  _obvious_. Was it only the Joker who so quickly saw who she was, or was she obvious to everyone? He could just have been wildly speculating about her as she had been about him, but there was something eerily on point about his deductions that made Harley nervous.

He was toying with her just like he had Walsh and Blakely. But unlike them, Harley would not allow herself to run scared. She could  _handle_  him.

The birdsong alarm was still chirping away happily, making Harley grit her teeth. She lashed out at her bedside table, snatching up the phone and hurling it across the room. It hit the wall with a dull  _thump,_ but the birds kept on singing, so Harley was forced to drag herself out of bed anyway, and when she picked the phone up off the floor she groaned - the screen was cracked and would need replacing.

She muttered unhappily to herself as she climbed into the shower and got ready for work.

* * *

Her first port of call that morning was Walsh's office, and it went about as well as she expected.

"Goddamnit Quinzel! What the hell did I just listen to!" Walsh exploded after the tape of Harley's session with the Joker had finished.

"Harleen, you _baited_  him," Blakely was anxiously raking back the few hairs still clinging to his head. "What exactly are you trying to accomplish?"

"I was trying to  _engage_  him," Harley protested.

"Are you sure?" Blakely pushed back, looking strained. "Because it sounded like once he called you 'Harley' you... you kind of  _went after_  him."

"Quinzel, you told me you were up to this," Walsh continued to bluster, not listening to either of them. "You let him lead you around like a dog on a Goddamned leash! Hot little blonde? You didn't even reprimand him! And you didn't come  _close_  to answering the remaining admission questions!"

"You can't expect me to finish the whole interview with him in one sitting," Harley snapped, her cheeks getting hot and her fingers curling into fists. "It took Neville three days just to figure out he wasn't getting anywhere!"

Blakely grimaced but didn't disagree.

"I have a strategy," she said more plainly, aiming to appease both of them.

"That's all well and good, Quinzel, but we need you to get  _answers!_ " Walsh flopped down behind his desk and folded his hands together. "The people of Gotham want to know who has been tormenting them!"

Harley had opened her mouth to defend herself again but stopped as she considered what Walsh was saying. Since when did the citizens of Gotham have any stake in the Arkham admission interview?

"What is that supposed to mean?" She eyed Walsh suspiciously, knowing instinctively that he was up to something.

"I'm saying do your job and do as your told," Walsh snapped, his jowls shaking with the effort. "Finish the interview in two more sessions, or we're bringing in outside help."

Harley left Walsh's office, feeling like her blood was boiling in her veins. Both Blakely and Walsh treated her like a child instead of their equal, acting as if her one false start with the Joker was more egregious than either of their failures with him. And why? Because she was a woman? Young? Better at her job than both of them? It made her fucking  _furious_  not to be treated with the respect she knew she deserved, held to the different standard than her old, fat, male peers.

Still fuming, Harley threw herself into her work to distract herself. She met with Annie to discuss the blood work for the drug trials they were running on patients in C Wing, a ward full of criminals who weren't quite dangerous enough for D Wing but whose pathology made them too unstable for A or B Wing. Harley had a list of patients as long as her arm that she needed to see, the most irritating of which was Joey Nash, who she made sure was last on her list. After three hours of interviewing C Wing patients on various doses of the new Elliot Pharmaceutical drug Harley was feeling antsy, her hatred of Walsh peaking over the internal blockade she'd constructed against it.

Nash was hauled in by three orderlies, swearing and thrashing as they shoved him into the chair and strapped him down. Harley watched passively until the orderlies left, and Nash's eyes slanted over to her. He was a huge man, fat but muscular with a tendency to drool. He also had a tendency to bite, so he hadn't been given a shave in months. There was saliva in his beard, and when he recognized Harley, he pulled his lips back in a snarl, baring his teeth.

"You again," he grunted. "Fucking bitch."

Harley only just stopped herself from rolling her eyes. Nash was your basic discount variety psychopath. Zero control of his emotions or actions, too cognitively deficient to learn from in a research capacity, driven only by rewarding the pleasure center of his brain via sexual violence and sadistic impulses.

"Hello, Mr. Nash. How have you been feeling this week?"

"I'm gonna fuck you!" He snarled, lurching forward against his restraints. "And I'm - I'm - I'm gonna fuck you, whore!  _WHORE!_ "

"Mr Nash," Harley snapped. "Please control yourself. Have you noticed any difference in the way you think this week? How you think about yourself or others, for example."

"I'm gonna fuck you!"

"Mr Nash, please try to concentrate," she sighed, making a note on her clipboard.

Nash grunted loudly, throwing himself back and forth against the restraints keeping him in the chair. Harley watched for a few seconds, observing his mania, his lack of control. She could see that he was truly tormented and mentally unwell, and yet she felt nothing but contempt for him.

"Fucking bitch! I'm gonna fuck you, you whore!"

Harley's patience, brittle as it was, snapped, and she felt an unfamiliar swell of  _rage_  rise in her chest. She got to her feet, staring down at Nash in disgust even as he continued barking at her.

"I warned you," she told him. Her hand, which had been clenching and unclenching all day since her meeting with her colleagues, itched to lash out at him. She wanted to  _hurt him_.

Harley waved to the CCTV camera, and two orderlies stepped in, looking confused.

"Tell Annie I need a spinal tap sample from Mr Nash," Harley said thinly, looking Nash in the eye as she gave the instruction. "And when you're finished, I want three rounds of ECT performed. Today."

"No!" Nash grunted, and then the grunts turned into shouts and then screams of protest. "NO!  _NO!"_

"But, Dr Quinzel," One of the orderlies spoke up over Nash's shouting. "Won't that affect the study?"

Harley shrugged, watching Nash break down. "Mr Nash is unwell. See that he gets the treatment I've prescribed."

When they had dragged him away, Harley left the session room too, intending to head back to her office to wait out the remaining hour until her next session with the Joker. She felt warm all over, and she leaned back against the cool flagstone wall, sighing out her frustration with the day. She wasn't entirely sure what she'd just done. Definitely ordered an unnecessary spinal tap. The ECT was par for the course; she'd given it to Nash before, and it had calmed him down. But she knew how much he hated it, and that was precisely why she'd done it today.

Harley tugged her hair out of the bun at the back of her head, sliding the hair tie over her wrist as she took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down and distract herself from the violence crackling in her fingertips. And once she stopped feeling like she would run down the hall screaming, she tied her hair back up again, knowing exactly what she would do about the Joker.

She speed-walked to D Wing to find Kelly and Fogerty on duty. They were standing together talking instead of patrolling, talking  _loudly_  over the inhuman roaring of an inmate called Lichtenstein, who frequently screamed himself hoarse at least once a week.

"You're early, Dr Quinzel," Fogerty looked surprised as she approached them. "His session isn't for another hour."

"Oh, I know," Harley said, all smiles to make them feel like they were on the same team. "Listen, he knows we have a session, doesn't he?"

Kelly and Fogerty exchanged a wary look, possibly thinking she was testing them on the no-communication-with-the-Joker rule. Finally, Kelly, who had been at Arkham longer and knew Harley better, relented.

"Burrows said he was asking about you last night," he said, looking uncomfortable. "He wanted to know if there would be another session with you so uh, Burrows..."

"Taunted him but confirmed there would be?" Harley nodded, filling in the blanks, and confident Burrows had been vile and sexist about her. "That's fine, thanks, Kelly."

"No problem," Kelly said, looking confused.

"Today I need both your help with something," she clapped her hands together, feeling good about her plan. "Tell him our session is in one hour, and a little over an hour when he tries to get your attention to ask what's going on, just tell him I changed my mind."

"You changed your mind?" Fogerty frowned. "But don't you need to finish the admission interview?"

"I will," Harley beamed at both of them. "We'll put something in the schedule another time. Just remember: I changed my mind."

The guards cautiously agreed to do as she asked, and Harley made a big show of thanking them and treating them like they were all in on something together before she left them to it. Now that she had put the Joker on ice, she had the entire afternoon to herself. So she headed to B Wing and Jonathan Crane's cell.

A and B Wing patients were considered relatively non-violent - because they were vegetables or because of their track record - so Harley could swipe herself in and out of Crane's cell, though she knocked first as a courtesy to her old acquaintance. The steel bolts locking the door shot back from the wall with a ** _CLANG,_** and the door swung outwards, revealing Crane on his cot, reading a battered copy of  _Freudian Hysterics_  and looking bored as Harley entered the cell and pulled the steel door shut behind her, its noisy locking mechanism engaging instantly.

"Harleen," Crane nodded to her as she sat in the chair beside his cot. "I wasn't expecting you."

"I'm sorry I haven't been back to see you yet this week," she apologized, straightening her lab coat as she crossed her legs. "The Joker has taken over the entire asylum. It's been nonstop all week."

Crane pursed his lips unhappily. "Is Walsh pandering to him to get the interview done? I can't believe he's entertaining an interview with that  _clown_  in the first place."

"Actually, I'm doing the interview since Walsh and Blakely are too frightened of him," Harley rolled her eyes, and Crane nodded as if he understood her dilemma of being surrounded by incompetence all too well. "I'm going to employ a reward-based system to get him to talk. I think I'll make it obvious without telling him."

"There's nothing quite like triggering a psychopath's pleasure center to get him to talk," Crane's mouth lifted in amusement, his pale eyes ironic. "Though I'm surprised it's difficult to get the Joker to talk - perhaps not any sense. What will the reward be?"

"Being allowed to discuss the Batman," Harley replied easily. "Eventually. First, it will be his ability to see me now I've established I'm willing to talk about the Batman. Any minute now he should be learning that he won't be talking to me today but  _maybe_  tomorrow. We'll just have to see." She grinned at Crane, her eyebrows jumping suggestively.

"Do you believe that is  _ethical_ , Harleen?" Crane asked drolly, fully aware he was the last person on earth to discuss ethics.

"Who cares," Harley shrugged.

 _"Ruthless_ ," Crane shook his head, looking amused again.

"Anyway," Harley set her clipboard aside and leaned forward, so her elbows were resting on her knees. "Where were we last week? You were telling me about... Ra's al Ghul?"

Crane set his book aside on the bed and removed his glasses, placing them on top of the book's cover before he let his slippered feet land on the floor and he turned to face Harley fully.

"I'm not just going to sit here and tell you about R'as al Ghul for nothing in return, Harleen," Crane said coldly. "I want access to my old files."

"The DA's office confiscated all of your work, Jonathan," Harley reminded him. "But if you tell me what you know, then perhaps  _together_  we could come up with something."

Crane considered this, folding and unfolding his hands anxiously, a quality Harley had only ever seen in him since he'd been gassed by the fear toxin.

"Ra's al Ghul is a superfluous detail to this story," Crane said at length, not meeting Harley's eyes. "And I am relatively certain the Batman killed him."

Harley frowned, not following his logic. "Because he knew you were working together? That seems... excessive for the Batman."

Crane purses his lips, still not meeting Harley's eyes as he struggled with something internally.

"I was under the impression that Ra's wanted to use my fear toxin to hold the city for ransom," he said at length, his face souring. "But... his goal was to destroy Gotham entirely."

"Destroy Gotham?" Harley reared back in her seat, trying to wrap her head around what Crane was saying. "Why?"

"He was the leader of a group of assassins called the League of Shadows," Crane said, looking like the words were being pulled out of him by torture, and obviously knowing it sounded completely insane. "They had their dogmatic reasons for believing Gotham was doomed. Not unlike the Joker."

Harley was so taken aback by this revelation that she couldn't think of a single thing to say. Two things did stand out, though. That the Batman had a habit of getting in the way of men who wanted to destroy the city. But also that the Joker had come a hell of a lot closer to tearing Gotham apart than R'as al Ghul, and he hadn't been armed with a poisonous gas. The only weapon he'd had - as Gordon put it - was the tongue in his head.

* * *

The next day Harley arrived at Arkham early to make a dent in her rapidly building casework before her session with the Joker. She had two more chances to get something useful out of him before they brought in an outside opinion. That would be admitting defeat, something Harley did not do well.

But by 8 AM, chaos had broken out at Arkham, and Harley found herself sucked into something much bigger than herself.

An expose on Elliot Pharmaceutical appeared in the Gotham Globe that morning, mainly focusing on corruption that led to the company's profit margins outweighing the cost of their drugs, but also suggesting those drugs were not as effective as they claimed to be, and their side effects more dangerous.

Harley spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon in meetings with a crisis PR firm in Midtown. They wanted her to go on GCN to dispute the claims the Globe made about the side effects of the drugs she'd vetted, but Harley refused. She provided the publicists with her raw data and analysis, along with a list of clinical psychologists who would corroborate her work to the FDA. She had done nothing wrong, she insisted. It would take too long to prove all this, they said, Elliot's public image was in imminent danger.

And on it went through the afternoon when the lawyers were brought in, and Harley realized this was about a much larger legal scandal for Elliot, and not about her work.

That night, back at Arkham, she met with the board of directors who ordered her not to follow the PR firm's advice. Under no circumstances was Arkham to be dragged into this mess.

Half of Arkham's board members also sat on the board of Kane Company, Elliot's parent company, and those members' last names also happened to  _be_  'Kane,' and _this_  was when Harley knew there was something  _really_  bad going on behind the scenes at Kane and Elliot.

They would take care of this, the board said. Just keep your mouth shut and continue your work.

On her way home, Harley picked up a bottle of wine and drank most of it while she lay sprawled on her couch watching  _Made in the Diamond District_ , trying to decompress after an insane day. The Joker was the farthest thing from her mind by this point, the fact that she was meeting with him the next day to complete the admission interview only vaguely registering as important compared to her career hanging in the balance.

Who was he again? Some charming narcissist who looked at her oddly and spoke strangely? She could handle him.

The next morning was spent with a  _second_  PR firm the board brought in to advise Arkham on how to respond to potential criticism. The answer? To say nothing at all and wait for it to blow over. That was fine with Harley and Blakely. Walsh was less happy about it.

By the afternoon, with only an hour to go before her meeting with the Joker, Harley was struggling to concentrate. She reviewed her notes and the information Gordon had given her, and by the time she was standing outside the session room in D Wing she had plastered on a mask of impassive disinterest with a line of questions that she swore to herself, she would not deviate from. Get the interview done - that was her mantra.

She swiped her key and entered the session room, calm and collected until the moment the Joker looked up at her, and all her thoughts about Kane and Elliot and PR firms flew straight out of her head. All she saw was that coy smirk on his mutilated lips, and those dark eyes glittering at her like he  _knew_  what had been happening outside his cell.

No, she was projecting. He couldn't possibly know. And even if he did, she would appear unaffected by it. Professional.

"Hello, how are you?" She asked him calmly as she took her seat, reminding herself that her very presence after two days away was a reward to get him to cooperate.

"Ohhh,  _fine_ ," he purred, his eyes following her as she sat. "I was  _startin_ ' to think I wouldn't see you again, doc."

Harley forced herself to meet his gaze as she slid the tape recorder between them and flicked it on, taking note of his dark eyes darting down to the device then back to her.

"Today I'd like to talk about the ferries at Gotham Harbour," she said evenly, watching him carefully for a reaction.

His face soured. "I thought you wanted to talk about the _Batman_ ," he lifted his eyebrows appraisingly.

"We will," she said, maintaining the calm, professional manner she had spent years perfecting. "He stopped you there, didn't he? Left you hanging off the side of a building by your ankle after you fell?"

He settled back in his chair, licking his lips. "How do you know I didn't jump, hmm?"

"Are you suicidal?" Harley asked flatly. "You told the police you were fighting, he stopped you from detonating the devices on the ferries, you fell, he caught you."

"Oh, he would  _never_  let me die," the Joker swayed back and forth restlessly and rolled his eyes. "He's got these  _rules_. Especially for  _me."_

"Let's go back to the ferries," Harley pivoted, thinking it was too bad the Batman didn't have the same rules for Harvey Dent. "People on the ferries said you gave them a choice. Either kill one another or be killed themselves." She looked up at him and saw he was watching her closely. "Kill or be killed. Survival of the fittest. Is that the idea?"

He bit the inside of his cheek - bit the  _scars_  - and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling thoughtfully. "Underneath it all...  _maybe._ "

"Underneath it all?" Harley frowned.

"People... they don't like to admit they're nothing but  _animals_." He bounced his shoulders restlessly. "But  _that_  isn't really the point."

"So, what is the point?" Harley braced one elbow on the table and rested her chin on her knuckles, trying to follow his logic.

"The point..." he intoned methodically. "Is that these...  _civilized_  people. Living this...  _myth_  of morality. They're all living a  _lie._ "

"Because they're really animals just trying to survive," Harley filled in, narrowing her eyes as she considered the merit in what he was saying.

"Oh... oh,  _no_. They're not just tryin' to survive." He chuckled, a low, lazy sound. "Civilization... it's done a  _funny_ thing to us humans. It's made us _ruthless._ More ruthless than  _any_ animal. And we  _alllllll_  wanna pretend that's not the case. My job is to  _show_  people who they really are. To make them... look past the  _bullshit_. To  _accept_  themselves."

Harley's eyes widened. She had had patients tell her all  _kinds_  of crazy things to explain how they viewed the world, always for the purpose of justifying acting on their violent impulses. But what the Joker's argument about the world was... different. Nuanced and disturbingly resonant. Harley could tell he believed what he was saying, but she couldn't decide how aware he was that this philosophy was just an excuse for his behavior.

Even if he was right.

He bent forward at the waist, his eyes widening. "Do you think the _mob_  wouldn't kill every last person in the Narrows if it meant they'd get a few extra bucks out of it _? Hmm_?"

"Do you believe only  _you_  can show people the truth?" Harley countered gently.

His head flopped to one side, his lips curling rakishly. "Are ya gonna call me a  _narcissist_  again if I say  _yes_." He waggled his eyebrows at her.

Harley laughed despite herself, and his grin grew.

"So humans are fundamentally evil. Not just the powerful, but the weak too." She paused, running her tongue over her bottom lip, and she saw his eyes divert to her mouth briefly. "And your job is to show people they're all living a lie by being as ruthless to them as you know they're capable of being themselves?"

 _"Sure_ ," he nodded, sneering. "You  _force_  people to choose, and they show their true colors."

"But that obviously doesn't work," Harley corrected, placing both her elbows on the table and leaning forward gamely. "You gave those people on the ferries a choice, but you miscalculated. They didn't choose to kill each other. They chose the myth of morality, even if it meant possibly being killed themselves."

He narrowed his eyes at her, apparently not happy about being reminded about his  _miscalculation_.

"Because you tried to force it down their throats," Harley continued, rotating her hand as she thought through the flaws in his logic. "You were too ruthless with them, and you re-enforced their  _dedication_  to their morality myth by not giving them a  _real_  choice. Instead of seeing the truth, they doubled down on what they  _think_ they know."

All signs of expression abruptly disappeared from the Joker's face, and he was  _staring_  at her blankly, emoting nothing, and Harley didn't have the faintest idea what this blankness meant, but she was on a roll now.

"You can't force people to see things they don't want to see." She spread her hands like she was offering him something. "You have to show them and guide them... subtly, so they realize it for themselves. Otherwise, the whole process is corrupted."

He didn't say anything, just continued to stare at her, and she could feel his eyes darting around her face like he was trying to  _find_  something there. The seconds of silence continued to drag on, and on,  _and on,_  and she started to feel a little  _overwhelmed_  by the strength of his gaze, and how singularly focused on her it was.

"But that's because you are a psychopath," she pivoted, trying to pick up the thread of the purpose of their conversation: the admission interview.

Harley watched him prod his cheek with his tongue like he was deep in thought. Then, like a light bulb switching on, his eyebrows jumped up into his forehead and his mouth curved into a nasty grin, and he bent forward towards her, suddenly in motion once more.

"Okay _, Harley_ , I'll play along," he hissed, wiggling his shoulders aggressively. "Why am  _I_  a psychopath?"

"It's a collection of different elements," Harley started, weirdly shaken by the sound of her nickname on his lips. "Anti-social behavior, narcissism, but the easiest thing to boil it down to is a lack of empathy. Perhaps intellectually you know what you're doing is wrong when you hurt people, but emotionally it doesn't resonate. You just don't  _feel_  it. So you have no brakes when it comes to your behavior, and this might be why you're inclined to act on certain violent impulses. Like blowing up hospitals."

" _Impulses,_ huh," he smacked his lips. "See I think it's healthy to uh...  _give in_  to your impulses now and then. It keeps things  _interesting_." He dropped his chin down, looking up at Harley from under his eyelashes. " _Denying_  yourself what you want... oh... that'll drive you...  _crazy._ "

He quirked one all-knowing eyebrow up at her and Harley felt profoundly that this statement was explicitly meant for _her_  personal benefit, though what she was supposed to be denying herself of, she had no idea.

"But your crimes weren't impulsive acts, were they," Harley continued, attempting to keep the session on track, even if all it gave her were more questions. "What you did on the ferries had to be planned well before that night. And the same goes for the hospital and everything else. What  _fascinates_  me about you is that though you act on your violent, anti-social impulses, you don't act  _impulsively._  You can  _wait_  for the gratification. But simultaneously, you don't  _ignore_  your impulses."

"I uh...  _fascinate_  you, huh?" He ran his tongue back and forth across his bottom lip as he smirked at her, and Harley could feel her cheeks get warm under his complacent stare.

"You dress up like a clown and psychologically terrorize people," Harley replied drolly. "What's not fascinating about that?"

The Joker's head flew back, a raspy bark of laughter escaping his throat that was nothing like the dreadful, shrill laughter she'd heard before. Then he snapped back up to face her.

" _You_ ," he was grinning and thrust one shoulder forward like he would have pointed at her if he'd been able to. "Are  _very_  funny."

Harley almost said 'thanks,' but she was reminded of the tape recorder.

"I haven't seen your brain," she said instead, earning herself an incredulous look. "But if I had to guess, I would say your prefrontal cortex has significantly less gray matter than most people. That means your capacity for emotional intelligence is diminished. The question is, how do you contain your impulses long enough to see them pay off. "

 _"Jesus_ ," he said wryly, licking his lips and looking incredibly  _entertained_  by her. "This shit  _really_  gets you going  _doesn't_  it."

She sat back and folded her arms, smiling good-naturedly at him. It was time for him to get his reward.

"Why don't you tell me about the Batman."

* * *

Back in her office, Harley was struggling with what to write in her assessment. She played the tape of their session back twice and thought she probably had enough information to complete the admission form, which was the purpose of this whole exercise in the first place. To get it done and out of the way, and to prove to Walsh that she was more competent than he and Blakely combined.

But after that second session she felt...  _stimulated_... and maybe a little  _wired_ , like she needed to burn off some energy.

In her year at Arkham and all her years as a clinical researcher before that, Harley had never encountered someone like the Joker. He had challenged her and engaged her, and she wasn't ready to give him up yet. She _needed_  more time with him, if for no other reason than to satisfy her curiosity about how a person who behaved like such a monster could simultaneously be so reasonable and in control of his faculties.

Arkham was full of anti-social personalities, many of them unable to hold a conversation, let alone express a nuanced world view.  _Real_  psychopaths were rare, and they were excellent at imitating 'normal' behavior. But below the surface of that feigned humanity lurked the cruelest impulses imaginable, impulses they could not control, and which they more often than not did not want to control.

Harley had worked with a few 'real' psychopaths, and even they weren't like the Joker. When they tried to pretend to be 'normal,' it frequently felt forced, and they still came off as  _odd_. The Joker made no bones about being odd - he  _reveled_  in it - and yet he seemed saner than any of those other men.

Harley knew she wouldn't be satisfied until she found out what made the Joker tick.

* * *

The next morning after listening to the session tape again with Walsh and Blakely, Harley folded her arms and waited for either old man to say something.

"My God. Quinzel, you got him to talk," Walsh looked flabbergasted. "He hardly makes any sense, and he's obviously insane, but he didn't toy with you or bait you."

Harley pursed her lips, not agreeing with  _any_  of those statements. The Joker made perfect sense, he was cognitively sound, and he had toyed with her - he'd just been more subtle about it this time.

"I think you have enough here to complete the interview," Blakely beamed at her. "Thank God, this is over."

"Actually," Harley injected, hedging her bets. "We haven't covered enough to complete the admission form. We don't know about his mood or his relationship to his victims or any sexual deviancy that may be present."

"It's just a formality, Harleen," Blakely protested. "It doesn't need to be perfect."

"Now, hold on Neville," Walsh stood up behind his desk, rubbing his hands together deviously. "If Quinzel thinks she can get any more out of him, we should let her try."

Harley narrowed her eyes at Walsh, again sensing he was up to something. "I can try," she agreed.

"One more session, Quinzel," Walsh said, holding up his index finger. "Get what you can out of him because it's likely the only thing that will ever go on record after they cart him off to Guantanamo Bay."

Harley continued with her day, trying not to feel like there was something big and significant waiting for her at 4 pm that afternoon. She'd had exciting cases before, but they never made her feel so... shaken and  _invested_. All day, as she sat through meetings and interviewed patients and recorded data, Harley thought over her new line of questioning. What would get the  _most_  out of him?

She took her lunch in her office but instead of eating she sat hunched over her computer watching clips of Harvey Dent's campaign speeches, thoughtfully fingering her split ends as she tried to find the right angle that would get her what she wanted from the Joker.

And at 4 pm Harley arrived at the D Wing session room to find the Joker waiting for her, his eyes rolling left and right as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, looking painfully bored right up until Harley slipped into the room.

" _Wowww_... two days in a row," he drawled, watching closely as she dropped a file on the table and took her seat across from him. "Lucky  _me._ "

"Our last day, unfortunately," Harley informed him with a sad smile as she tapped on the tape recorder and retrieved an A4 sized photo from the file, pushing it towards him. "So, let's make it a good one, okay?"

"Uh..." he looked down at the photo she had put in front of him, an old black and white crime scene shot of a body. "What am I lookin' at here, doc?"

"That is a bite mark Ted Bundy left on one of his victim's buttocks," Harley explained, planting her elbows on the table and smiling at him. "We have a lot of biters here at Arkham. It makes sense if you think about it; by biting, they are expressing both a violent impulse and a sexual one. I was hoping today we could talk about sexual behavior, and maybe we can find out more about your pathology. By the way, this is how they caught Bundy," she tapped the bite mark in the photo and met his eye. "True story."

"Uh huh," the Joker squinted at her curiously, prodding the scars inside his mouth with his tongue. "So you want to know if ah... I'm a _biter. Is_  that it?"

Harley shrugged. "Biting isn't necessarily indicative of pathology. A 'normal' person can find sexual pleasure in being bitten or biting, although this," she tapped the photo again. "Was obviously an extremely violent act."

"Sure," he agreed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "What's a little  _nibble_  between friends."

"What I'd like to understand about you," Harley continued, watching him watching her with an amused little  _gleam_  in his eye. "Is how you negotiate with yourself over what is worth waiting for and what is not. The same part of your brain that doesn't allow you to feel the empathy we talked about yesterday? It's also the base of the brain's pleasure center, and theoretically, you should be chasing every pleasurable feeling and impulse you can find without having the foresight to wait."

He nodded along with her as she spoke like he agreed with everything she was saying. She'd hoped opening with  _ **SEX**_  would catch him off guard, get him to examine his brain's reward system since he had seemed open to at least some self-reflection the day before. It also seemed to Harley that his sexuality would be a revealing window into who he was beyond the trappings of psychoanalysis.

"See, I don't uh, how d'you put it...  _negotiate_  with myself, doc," he started, shooting her a sly smile that told her this wasn't going to be all that easy after all. "I just  _do_  things... as and when they  _need_  to happen."

"Well, that's just not accurate," Harley interjected. "With the hospital-"

"The hospital, hmm," he closed his eyes thoughtfully for a moment before opening them slowly, focusing on her. "I was just trynna get people to kill that guy who was gonna rat out the Batman, ya know? No need to talk myself in _circles_  or negotiate my  _pleasure center_. You think too much, doc. You're too eager to put people in little  _baskets_  with little _labels_... kinda like how you put yourself in this very..." He narrowed his eyes and wrinkled his nose like he was trying to find the right word as he considered her. "Very... neat... gray...  _inoffensive_  little basket... but that's not who  _you_  are at all."

"I don't need you to tell me who I am," Harley bristled.

"Are you  _sure_?" He feigned a sympathetic look. "Cause I'm lookin' at you and thinkin' that  _poor_  Dr Quinzel. She deserves some  _fun_."

Harley licked her lips, feeling more like a lawyer than a psychologist as she tried to navigate around what he'd put on the table.

"Let's... go back," she offered him a placating smile, even as her hands clenched to fists beneath the table. "How do you view sex?"

"Careful, doc," he licked his bottom lip and offered her a self-satisfied smirk. "You're gonna make me blush."

"No need to blush," Harley replied quickly, determined to drag this information out of him if it was the last thing she did. "I've heard it all. Just be honest with me."

"I'm gonna guess that my uh... what was it _? Pathology_ , the whole uh...  _empathy_  thing... probably makes you think I'm not good boyfriend material, huh?" He lifted his eyebrows like he was waiting for her to confirm, but Harley just stared back at him sourly. "And sure, I can understand a guy not being  _thrilled_  about his daughter bringing me home for dinner, but it wasn't like I was..."

"Are you telling me you have had long-term relationships with women?" Harley asked incredulously, interrupting what was sure to be a diatribe.

"Well, _sure_ ," he shrugged and then leaned toward her meaningfully. "I'm only  _human_ , Harl."

She almost winced at the familiar shortening of her name. "Would you like to tell me about them?" She asked, trying to find her calm, professional baseline again.

"Hmm..." He hissed out a long breath through his teeth, his eyes swiveling up to the ceiling thoughtfully. "She was a S _enator's_  daughter, and ooh boy, daddy was  _not_  happy about that."

"Senator's daughter," Harley repeated, and when he nodded soundly, she pushed forward. "Was there a purpose to being with her beyond the fact that you liked her, cared for her, were attracted to her..."

"Oh, you mean like because her dad was a mark?" He asked, widening his eyes and playing innocent. "And to get close to him, I got close to her?"

Harley wasn't sure if she was disappointed that he was sticking to the psychopathic mold after all or if she was too intrigued by this Senator's daughter story to care. Had this happened before the scars? Did he routinely kill Senators?

"So your relationship with this woman was primarily about wanting access to her father," she filled in, making mental notes for later. "Not about your connection with her."

"Well," he licked his lips and looked at the wall behind Harley's shoulder, and a little smile lit up his face that was less performative than any of the smiles and grins and smirks she'd seen yet. Genuine. "Let's just say  _s_ _he_  wasn't complaining."

"That's normal," Harley replied calmly, noting that her neck was feeling flushed. "Psychopaths are often skilled sexual partners for the exact reason you've given. She wasn't complaining because of the good sex, and you got what you wanted from the relationship. Right?"

"Oh _, Harley_ ," he shook his head like he was disappointed in her. "It's not  _that_  complicated. Just cause I needed somethin' from her doesn't mean we didn't have a  _great_  time together."

Harley's toes curled in her shoes as she thought about him having a  _great time_. "So where is she now?"

"Oh, uh... we lost touch," the Joker tried to fight a coy smirk, but it won out, and Harley rolled her eyes.

She braced her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her palm, allowing him to see her thinking through what he'd told her. She wanted to ask him about his past again. Where he came from, how he got the scars, where this senator's daughter fit into the timeline. But asking outright wouldn't work. So she tried something else.

"You know, Greg Olsen from the Globe thinks you're an Iraq war vet suffering PTSD," she pulled her phone out of her pocket and did a quick search for the article, then set her phone on the table and pushed it across the table towards him.

"Huh," the Joker said dispassionately, squinting down at the headline of the opinion piece.

"Steve Lombard at the Gothamite thinks you're ex CIA," Harley continued placidly. "Everyone wants to know where you came from."

He looked up at her sharply, mirth dancing in his eyes, and Harley knew the secret of wherever the hell he came from was not one that he would give up easily.

"And what do  _you_  think?" He asked her pointedly, and Harley inhaled deeply as she considered this request.

"I have no idea," she admitted at length, and he nodded sympathetically.

"These uh, these  _labels_. Your little... psychiatric filling system," he ran his tongue over his bottom lip when Harley met his eyes again. "Doesn't it make you feel a little uh...  _claustrophobic_? Like, I dunno, that there's more to people than just...  _diagnosis...?_ "

Harley's eyebrows jumped in surprise. "I do think there's more to people than just diagnosis," she protested and then reconsidered because actually in someone like Nash, all she saw was a collection of problems. "Some people," she edited.

"Mmhmm," he held her gaze, nodding like he understood everything, and Harley had an eerie feeling that understanding included her unique interest in him. "So, who are you?"

"Who am I?" Harley parroted back, and then her eyes narrowed suspiciously because once again he was leading her, about to tell her who she was as he saw her. "I'm a doctor. I care about research and science and understanding the complexities of the human mind that we might otherwise find unexplainable."

He winced. "And that's... it?"

Harley pursed her lips, wanting to ask what he meant by that but knowing she couldn't with the tape recorder on. Research and study had been her life for years, a lab coat, and the scientific method the way she defined herself. It seemed noble to live her life that way, to follow the logic instead of the impulses, and it had taken  _a lot_  of work on her part to choose logic over impulses. Impulses got you in trouble. Logic got you a PhD. Impulses, as seductive as they were, historically did not end well for Harley.

"Oh, _there_  it is," the Joker purred, startling Harley.

"What?" She snapped, surprised, and more than a little unnerved.

He leaned forward, his face serious. "Whatever it was you were thinkin' about. That's the _it_. That's the more than just uh..." he rolled his shoulders around like he would have been gesturing. "More than just a lab coat," he settled on.

Harley felt rattled by this assessment, in part because he seemed to see right through her, in part because she knew he was manipulating her and she was whole-heartedly allowing him to.

"I know I'm more than just a lab coat," she countered, feeling she needed to take back control of the conversation. "Just like I know you're more than just a psychopath."

She hadn't acknowledged this internally yet, but saying it out loud she knew it was true. He was more. That's why she found him so compelling.

He lifted his eyebrows appraisingly. "And yet those are the roles that brought us together, huh?"

Harley had  _no idea_  what to do with that sentence and no idea what to do to about the fact that she felt so shaken after this exchange. She knew, logically, that he was toying with her to get under her skin. But it felt more significant than any of the ways he'd toyed with Walsh and Blakely. More personal. Was she more prone to manipulation than they were? It scared her, so she hardened her expression and snapped off the tape recorder, then stood quickly.

"Thank you for your time," she told him coldly before turning for the door.

"See ya soon, Harley," he drawled as the session room door unlocked and swung open, the buzzer still wailing.

Harley turned back to face him, offering him a pinched smile. "Actually, you won't."

But he smirked lazily at her, leaning back like he knew something she didn't, and after staring at him for a few long seconds, trying to understand what that lazy smirk meant, Harley left.

* * *

Back in her office, Harley typed up the admission interview without listening back to the tape. It was still fresh in her mind, especially the second half where they'd spent so much time discussing her, and she couldn't explain why she felt so rattled by what he'd said except that there were kernels of truth in it. It would have been easy to say he'd planted those kernels, his ultimate goal being that he could watch them grow, but the question of " _That's it?_ " was one she already thought about all the time, and for some reason, he'd seen it... or guessed it.

It frequently made her unhappy, thinking about how the next week would go. Just like the previous week and the one before that. Groundhog day. She accepted it though because that's what people do. You have a job you go to, and if you're lucky, your job is interesting - like Harley's. You pay your bills, you pay your taxes, and you try to have a social life around these pillars. That was just life.

Tomorrow was her day off, and she already knew what she would do. Clean her apartment, go to the gym to train, catch up on some psychology journals and the latest episodes of  _Made in the Diamond District,_  and then order take out for dinner before going to bed early. Then would come six days of waking up, going to the asylum, running drug trials, staying late, and coming home to her cold apartment to sleep before she did it all over again the next day.

Harley slid down in her chair and propped one elbow up on the armrest as she pillowed her cheek on her fist, rocking her chair from side to side in a soothing rhythm.

Harley tended to keep her feelings stuffed way down way inside where they couldn't poke through the surface and cause problems. She hadn't grown up in the most normal of circumstances, but she had learned years ago that to function in normal society you had to pretend to be normal at the very least, force yourself to be normal at best.

Normal didn't have to be boring. Stable and happy - or at least stable - it didn't have to be boring. Her career was moving forward at lightning speed, but maybe that wasn't enough. Or at least not enough for her if this lingering dissatisfaction with her life was any sign.

She did not like the fact that this dissatisfaction was bothering her so much now, an hour after the Joker had intimated that it should. But she didn't know how to get around the fact that he was also right. What was most concerning was how she now felt compelled to prove she was more than just a lab coat living a life of repetition. A life that wasn't  _enough_  for her. A life she had constructed that way on purpose.

It would be devastating to admit she'd been manipulated, and there was no way she would allow herself to 'do something' to prove him wrong, even if the impulse was lurking beneath the surface in that very moment. Impulses would be kept where they belonged: relegated to the back of her mind, not given free rein to control her. Harley was the one in control here. Everything came down to control.

She sat up and finished typing up the admission interview, then emailed it to Walsh and Blakely. They would all go over it in the morning after they listened to the last session tape, which, the more she thought about it, wasn't something she wanted anyone to hear. She quickly rewound the recorder to the beginning of the session, listening to the Joker say _"Wowww... two days in a row,"_  before she held her thumb down and deleted the rest of the recording.

Taking a cleansing breath, Harley turned off her computer and shrugged out of her lab coat, leaving it draped over the back of her desk chair in favor of a light jacket to ward off the cool September breeze. She didn't want to spend any more time in her office obsessing over the state of her life though she didn't particularly relish the idea of going back to her empty apartment for an evening of take out and _The Real Housewives of Gotham_  either.

Harley pulled out her phone on the short walk between the asylum and Elizabeth Arkham station, scrolling listlessly through a take out app for her favorite Japanese place when a message popped up.

_OMG am I ever going to see you again? SOB! What are you up to tonight? - Dana._

Harley almost ignored the message like she nearly always did when old friends got in touch - rare as it was these days. But Dana was a fun girl, and even if Harley didn't particularly feel the need to hear all about Dana's life as a yoga instructor and chant-leader, dating eligible bachelors who worked on Wall Street... well, the idea of some fun appealed to Harley.

Fun was never a priority for her.

_That poor Dr Quinzel. She deserves some fun..._

If she went for a drink with Dana, it was  _not_  because the Joker told her to. And anyway, maybe it was good advice even if it was coming from him.

Decision made, Harley replied to confirm that she didn't have any plans.

* * *

Forty minutes later, Harley was getting off the metro in an Uptown neighborhood of Gotham she was inclined to describe as  _arty_  or maybe  _hip_ for its cocktail bars, stylish graffiti, and many cafes-slash-art-galleries. Dana was waiting for her outside the station, looking very glamorous in a sequin dress and electric blue heels, her afro-curls wild and sleek around her pretty face.

" _OhmyGod!"_  Dana cried, throwing both arms around Harley and squeezing her hard. "You never reply to my texts!"

Harley shrugged apologetically and forced a guilty wince, not feeling especially apologetic or guilty. "Work is crazy right now," she explained.

"Did you just come from work?" Dana looked Harley up and down, taking in the poorly tailored navy slacks, the white shirt buttoned up to her throat, and finally her pale face and overly tight bun.

"Yeah, I did," Harley felt a twinge of embarrassment at the look Dana was giving her. It was far too close to pity. "It's Arkham; I can't exactly wear heels around murderers and rapists."

Dana's ruby red lips spread into an affectionate grin. " _Obviously_ , you can't," she back-tracked. "You're so brave, Harleen!  _OhmyGod,_  I need a glass of wine _so_  bad, how about you?"

They stepped into a wine bar that was trying too hard to be moody with wine barrel tables and bulbs of garlic hanging from the ceiling. It wasn't until they'd cracked open the first bottle of Pinot Noir that Dana gushed would ' _change her life,'_  and clinked glasses that Harley noticed the diamond ring sparkling on Dana's left ring finger.

"Isn't it beautiful!" Dana almost shrieked, gazing lovingly down at the ring. "Teddy asked me last month -  _OhmyGod_  - he's _so_  amazing, Harleen!"

"Congratulations," Harley grinned, amused at the constant stream of enthusiasm and  _OhmyGods_! from her old friend.

"Teddy lives in the same building as Bruce Wayne in Midtown," Dana continued, still staring at her engagement ring like it had entranced her. "He's just been promoted to partner at Kane-Hill-Wallace - isn't that amazing! Hopefully, we'll be able to buy one of the penthouses in a few years.  _OhmyGod_  I wonder if I'll run into Bruce Wayne in the elevator! Can you imagine!"

Harley shook her head in disbelief, genuinely unable to imagine, and swallowed a large gulp of her wine.

Two bottles of life-changing Pinot Noir and two hours of hearing about Teddy later, Harley was several sheets past drunk, nodding along sluggishly and making bullshit comments where Dana seemed to want her to pipe up. It was easy and enjoyably distracting, and for the first time in Harley couldn't remember how long, she stopped thinking about Arkham, and even almost forgot about the Joker.

When the wine bar closed, Harley and Dana drunkenly stumbled a few blocks west to a cocktail bar where Teddy was waiting for them with a friend from work. Dana held Harley back from stepping through the bar's entrance, waving her hands and saying " _OhmyGod,_  wait, wait, wait!" before spending a full minute searching her bag until she finally produced a tube of lipstick.

" _Girl,"_  Dana slurred, brandishing the lipstick, which was the same ruby red she was wearing. "I  _love_  you, and you  _know_  you're hot as hell _\- why_  are you dressed like a fifty-year-old librarian who can't get laid?"

"Librarians are cool," Harley slurred back, allowing Dana to paint her lips red with skill Harley was sure she did not possess. Red lipstick?  _Sheesh..._

Inside the cocktail bar, Teddy and his friend from work were waiting with a pair of neon green drinks in martini glasses. Both men looked identical to Harley, with their very square heads or at least very square haircuts. Their suits were expensive, but they were the same shape and color as every other suited man in the bar - all of whom more than likely just finished a day of work in Midtown.

Dana made introductions, immediately winding around Teddy while Harley became deeply invested in her neon green drink.

"Georgie, this is Harleen," Dana announced, looking pleased with herself. "Harleen works at _Arkham Asylum_  - can you believe it!"

"Hi Georgie," Harley smirked, recognizing that this was supposed to be a setup and if the look on Georgie's face was anything to go by, he wasn't especially grateful for it either.

"So, Arkham Asylum," Teddy interjected, leaning forward while Dana waved at the waiter to bring over another round of the neon green drinks. "You ever meet the Joker?"

Harley hesitated, sifting through her intoxicated thoughts for the appropriate answer. "Yes," she said slowly. Her giggles were gone now, and in her mind's eye, she suddenly imagined the Joker behind Teddy's shoulder, lifting one amused eyebrow at her as he so often did. She blinked the thought away.

"What's he like?" Teddy pressed.

"He's _crazy_  is what he's like," Georgie spoke up, looking disgusted.

"No, he's not," Harley snapped defensively, immediately regretting it when all three looked at her with varying degrees of surprise and alarm. "I mean..." She backtracked. "I mean, he's just complicated. There's more to him than just being crazy."

"You mean his philosophy?" Georgie rolled his eyes. "I've read all about his  _chaos theory_  - what he told those people on the ferries. It's bullshit! He's just a psycho, and they should have killed him when they had the chance."

A scowl tried to work its way onto Harley's face, but she fought it back into a pinched smile. "Well, I kind of like him," she retorted, aiming for light-hearted. "He's  _funny_."

Dana and Teddy threw their heads back, laughing like hyenas while Georgie looked disgruntled.

" _OhmyGod,_  this place is lame," Dana announced when she'd recovered. "Let's go somewhere where we can dance!"

Teddy leaned forward conspiringly. "Some of the boys at the firm say the Iceberg Lounge is supposed to be  _banging._ "

"Oh! I've heard of the Iceberg," Dana enthused. "Isn't it supposed to be really dangerous, though?"

"It's in Uptown," Teddy brushed her off. "How dangerous could it be?"

"Uptown used to be run by Falcone," Georgie pointed out soberly. "And my cousin Richie says even though people like Bobby Kane and Ivania Dumas go to the Iceberg, it's always full of mobster types, but they're so rich no one can do anything about it."

"Falcone is in Arkham," Harley retorted. "And he's  _actually_  crazy."

"Unlike the Joker, you mean?" Georgie shot back resentfully.

Harley shot him a withering look. "That's right," she replied coldly, not sure why she felt the need to defend the Joker.

Feeling her 'friends' eyeing her strangely, Harley ordered a round of shots to get their spirits back up and made sure not to bring up the Joker for the rest of the night. That did not stop her from thinking about him though, including the fact that he really was pretty funny.

* * *

The only way to tell the difference between night and day at Arkham was by the fluorescent strip lights. By day they were blindingly bright, lighting every inch of the cell for the CCTV camera perched in the corner. Then they'd turn the lights out at night for around eight hours, giving the inmates a chance to catch some Z's before they came back on again, and it would be a new day.

Any second now...  _annnyyy_  second they would come back on.

The Joker was lying on his lumpy Arkham cot staring into the darkness. He would have liked to have his arms behind his head, but the too-small straitjacket wouldn't allow it. He had one leg bent at the knee, and his foot braced against rough bed sheets that stank of bleach. His other leg was dangling off the cot, his bare foot bouncing restlessly against the cold floor as he waited for the lights to come back on.

Any second now...

This is what the Joker had been reduced to — waiting for the lights to turn on and off to ease his boredom.

He had always known getting locked up would be boring, which made for _excellent_  motivation not to get caught in the first place. But when you played the long game, you had to see it through, and the long game was traditionally pretty fucking dull right up until the very end. Then it turned on you. It cracked you  _right_  across the face after lulling you into submission. It changed pace at the opportune moment. And that was the point.

Arkham was winning hands down over Blackgate so far. The food was terrible, and the staff were less inclined to engage with him, but Arkham had Dr Harleen Quinzel.

 _Harley_  to her friends.

She'd been there when they brought him in that first day, and at first, she blended seamlessly into the line of other staff, all of them looking like they'd come straight out of central casting. Fat old white doctors, sassy Latina nurse, stiff-jawed ex-military security, shrewish lady doctor...

Then he'd noticed her  _staring_  at him, with those icy,  _mean_  blue eyes and an honest to god _shiver_  ran up his spine.

He'd thought maybe he'd killed someone she cared about, and that was where that piercing stare was coming from. Resentment and hatred topped terrified in the way people looked at him these days. But then he got closer and  _nope_... that stare was full of curiosity.

Oh,  _delicious_  curiosity.

Shrewish had been a bad first impression, that much was evident when she turned up with the old man doctor, eyeing him with more of that wonderful curiosity. She might have wrapped herself in the trappings of an uptight academic, but that was not who she was at all. It was hard to say if even  _she_  was aware of that crucial distinction.

After the old men got to have a crack at him, they finally let her have a chance. Both of the old ones were so...  _obvious._ It was like sitting across from billboards advertising the merits of mediocrity. But Dr Quinzel was so...

_Weird._

She was a weirdo. Watching her talk and explain her thinking was like watching a fucked up puppet show about to run right off the rails. That made her excellent for easing his boredom. And not only was she fun to watch, but she had managed to  _play_ him. Made him wait her out. Made him  _want_  to see her again. It was... masterful, came to mind, but the Joker had been locked up for over a month so his perception of the art of deception might have been skewed.

They'd had a couple of chit-chats by now, and he could see that beneath all that bland, label-loving, gray  _nothingness_ on the outside there was something more unique simmering away within. Something even  _weirder_. Two straight days of her and he was hungry for more, his curiosity about that big brain of hers completely unsatisfied. How fortuitous that she was at Arkham to keep him entertained.

Perspective was important. She topped a short list of things to keep him amused; the lights changing and working out the guards' personalities closely followed her.

But she'd said he  _fascinated_  her. Arkham was a place for opportunists, and he was sure she'd take the opportunity of his presence to satisfy her curiosity. Her  _fascination_  with him. Regardless of whatever rules the higher-ups tried to impose on her. She wasn't the kind of gal who followed the rules.

Maybe she needed a little nudge in the right direction — a little...  _guiding_ , as she'd put it.

Finally, the lights turned on, making him sigh in relief, and for a few seconds, he was blinded by the brightness, blinking stupidly at the ceiling. Then the door buzzed -  _WAAHHHHHHHHH_  - and the locks slammed back with a  _CLANG_  and three guards stomped in with their AK-45s raised, shouting at him to get up for shower time.

Oh... shower time. Fun. One of the more revealing opportunities to find out about his jailers.

At Blackgate the guards had been more inclined to talk to him - if you counted taunting him and beating him as 'talking,' which the Joker certainly did. But most of the Arkham guards were a study in silent restraint. He chalked it up to these men spending their days overseeing lunatics who shit themselves while the Blackgate guards spent their days trying to keep the inmates from knifing each other. Days spent practicing patience versus days drowning in full-throated violence. But  _all_  men had a button to push, one that would send them careening down a violent path.

These men had obviously been given instructions not to engage with him, and most of them stuck to the script. The Joker suspected if one of their colleagues were inclined to indulge in some light assault, they would all gladly look the other way. It hadn't gone very far yet, but he could tell they were all aching to see him pull something that warranted a um...  _response_.

Thus far, a mild push back against all that restraint was all that had been warranted, just to test the water. And when he'd asked about Dr Quinzel, ooooh boy...

At least one of them wanted to fuck her if the locker room talk was anything to go on. He was called Burrows, and the Joker adored him.

Very interesting that the others were fine with Burrows' assessment of Dr Quinzel's physical attributes, but they were horrified to hear her name on the Joker's lips. And all he'd done was ask how she was doing.

Burrows was there now, with two of the restrained ones called Kelly and Hassan.

"Shower time, asshole," Burrows announced, grinning like he had something devious up his sleeve while his colleagues watched warily from the cell door.

Oooooh. The Joker sat up on his cot, delighted to see his that pal might finally give into the violence he'd been suppressing all week.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" Burrows huffed, grabbing the Joker's arm and hauling him off the cot.

"I'm just happy to see you," the Joker told him honestly, swallowing a chuckle at the bewildered look on Burrows' face.

The 'shower room' was little more than a tiled box with a shower head and a rubber dispenser of soap attached to the wall. There was also a spout near the ground, its purpose ostensibly for cleaning the shower room itself. Considering the amount of feces-smearing the Joker had noticed so far he imagined it was cleaned frequently. That would also account for why there was no communal shower. Jesus that would get messy even without the threat of getting stabbed in the back with a shiv.

His first experience with 'shower time' came a few days after he got to Arkham. It comprised being shoved into the tiled box and finally released from the straitjacket, but only so he could undress with three rifles pointed at his head. Then they shut the door, turned on the water for about five minutes, shut it off, and barked at him to get dressed in a fresh jumpsuit while he was still soaking wet. A weak effort as far as torture went, but admirable as an official policy of the institution.

When he'd gotten dressed, the Joker hadn't failed to notice Burrows openly _staring_  at his more  _private_  anatomy.

Maybe  _that_  was why he hated him talking about Dr Quinzel so much.

Burrows took the lead again this time, shoving the Joker into the shower room while Kelly and Hassan watched. In an intriguing twist, Burrows remained in the room with him after the door slammed shut, and the Joker quickly realized the other two were acting as lookouts. His eyes nearly rolled back in his head with happiness. Finally. Some violence.

"Enjoy your time with Quinzel?" Burrows sneered, picking up a hose connected to the spout on the wall.

 _Wow_ , they'd put some thought into this.

"Oh yeah," the Joker grinned, basking in the hatred rolling off Burrows. "Me and Harley get along great."

"That's Dr Quinzel to you, asshole!" Burrows pointed the hose at the Joker who looked down at the nozzle, excited to see what would happen. "In here you're just a freak who can't move his arms."

"Jesus, Burrows," the Joker chuckled, luridly prodding his scarred bottom lip to distract Burrows as he popped one shoulder out of the socket. "You  _really_  like her, dontcha? Want me to put in a good word?"

"Shut the fuck up!" Burrows roared, forcing back the hose's handle.

Still fully clothed and restrained by a straitjacket, the force of the water hit the Joker hard in the chest, throwing him clear off his feet and back into the wall, his skull hitting the tiles so hard his teeth rattled.

Ah, waterboarding.

The Joker made a show of struggling and gurgling as Burrows sprayed him in the face -  _never_  underestimate the value of some classic misdirection - while he wrestled with the straitjacket. All it took was some mildly painful contortion, and the thing was off over his head, the water still pounding him into the tiles until Burrows realized what had happened and shut off the hose.

The straitjacket landed on the floor with a wet  _SLAP_  as the Joker swung his arms and inhaled deeply, clearing his head to get himself back in the game. Burrows was staring at him with the hose loosely dangling in his hands. He was speechless, stunned maybe, but not necessarily afraid yet, his lips moving wordlessly as the Joker rolled his head in a circle then examined his nails. They were longer than he would typically keep them but perfect for what he had in mind — a little something Dr Quinzel might notice if she paid any attention to the locker room talk.

"Get back, you sonofabitch," Burrows demanded, sounding nervous. "I said, get the fuck-"

The Joker launched himself off the wall with a snarl, grabbing Burrows by the front of his tan mall cop shirt and forcing him back into the wall. Burrows was too surprised to do anything but gasp as the Joker wrapped his hands around his cheeks and slammed his head back against the tiles, cracking a few of them.

The Joker has always been a little stronger than he looked.

Burrows' eyes were rolling, dazed from the head injury and suitably out of it for what came next. The Joker let him slide down the wall until his ass hit the ground, where he wavered until the Joker gave him a shove with his heel. Burrows keeled over sideways, catching himself on his elbow before his face hit the floor, and the Joker dropped into a squat beside him. He cocked his head to the side and considered Burrows, then glanced up to the small window looking out into the hall, gauging how much time he had. Satisfied it would be good enough, he grabbed Burrows by his shirt and rolled him onto his back, then hooked a leg over his chest to sit on him.

"I gotta tell you," the Joker growled, smoothing Burrows wet hair off his forehead. There was blood in it. Definitely concussed. "I really appreciate you bein' the first one to really  _go_ for it with me. I mean, all of you are so...  _repressed._  But not you, Burrows. You're a peach, you know that?"

Burrows whined weakly. Like a little girl or a dog. Giving up.

"That's it, huh," the Joker pursed his lips, disappointed. "You're out for the count, just like that. Ah, well."

He licked his lips and lifted his hands to take aim, then slammed his thumbs down into Burrows' eyes.

Burrows screamed. It was ear piercing and weirdly feminine coming from such a big man. The Joker failed to suppress a string of giggles tickling the back of his throat as one of Burrows' eyes popped out of the socket, and the other turned into jelly under the force of his thumb. Burrows kept screaming, bucking wildly as he tried to get free. It would only be seconds before the other guards came storming in to save him, and the Joker still needed to leave Dr Quinzel a little something.

He took Burrows by the chin and twisted his head from left to right, trying to decide on the perfect place with the limited time he had left.

A cheek would have to do. It was close enough.

The Joker dove forward and sank his teeth into Burrow's cheek, his jaws snapping shut like a viper. Blood filled his mouth, and Burrows' screams grew louder - right in his ear, no less, making it ring. He dug his teeth in harder... trying to get it  _just_ right.

Kelly and Hassan burst into the room then, shouting threats as they manhandled the Joker off Burrows and kicked him to the side. Hassan had his gun on the Joker, telling him not to fucking move while Kelly kneeled beside the Burrows to see what happened.

No eyes and a big bite mark on the cheek. That poor fucker, the Joker thought fondly. The giggles that had been erratically escaping his throat morphed into a full belly laugh that nearly had him screaming, making him double over where he lay on the wet floor, howling and wheezing. Kelly and Hassan rushed him, finally giving into those repressed, violent urges. They beat him with the butts of their rifles and kicked him with steel-toed boots, and the Joker continued howling gleefully.

More guards flooded the room, ones whose name he didn't know. But they joined in, and he welcomed their fear and their fury. He relished in it. He thrived off of it. He laughed until his vision darkened around the edges, right up until his head cracked against the tiles one too many times, and then...

* * *

**A/N: Please review!**

**Up next: We learn more about Harley.**


	3. Chapter 3

The Harlequin

3.

* * *

It was well into the afternoon on her day off before Harley could bring herself to open her eyes. Her throat was dry and scratchy from shouting in noisy bars, and the taste of tequila still lingered on her tongue. She moaned and rolled onto her back to stare at the ceiling, trying to remember how and when she got home but coming up empty. Her phone was on the pillow beside her head, vibrating with increasing frequency to let her know she had a voicemail. Unhappily, Harley snatched it up and squinted at the cracked screen.

There were five missed calls from Blakely. Highly unusual on an average day, let alone on her only day off. Harley had no desire to speak to him - or anyone else - and flung the phone back on the bed, forcing herself to get up and wander into the kitchen where she found a half-eaten pizza on the counter. Could be worse, she thought and picked up a cold slice to settle her rolling stomach before flopping bonelessly down on the couch.

Harley spent the rest of the day in that position, watching episode after episode of  _The Real Housewives of Gotham_  and occasionally dragging herself to the kitchen for more pizza. She ordered Indian food for dinner, getting enough for her lunch the next day too, and then settled back onto the couch with every intention of staying there for the rest of the evening.

Victoria Dumas-Hill was arguing with her nephew Daryl Crowne about how he would absolutely not be wearing sneakers to her daughter's wedding when Harley's phone rang in the bedroom. She sighed, knowing intuitively it was a work call as she slumped back to her room.

Sure enough, Blakely's bloated, miserable ID picture was staring up at her as her phone vibrated and jumped on the bed. Wondering why the man could not just learn to text, Harley answered, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"Hello, Neville," she sighed, her voice raspy from not being used all day.

"Harleen," Blakely sounded both pained and relieved by the sound of her voice. "Where have you been?"

"It's my day off," she replied grumpily, falling back into bed. "I do have a life, you know." It was a lie, and the silence on the other end of the line suggested Blakely knew it.

"Listen," he started apprehensively. "There's been an incident."

His tone made Harley sit up, her irritation forgotten. "What happened?"

"The Joker," he replied slowly. "He... there was an attack on an orderly. He um, he blinded Burrows."

"What!" Harley hissed incredulously, unable to imagine the Joker attacking anyone without a good reason, let alone  _blinding_  them. "Burrows weighs like three-hundred pounds! How the hell did the Joker...  _blind him_?"

"He..." Blakely sounded reluctant to tell her. "He... Harleen, he tore both of Burrows' eyes out. With his bare hands... And then he bit him."

Harley heard her breath catch as her hand flew up to cover her mouth.

"What do you mean he  _bit_  him?" She demanded, panic prickling at her scalp as she remembered slapping down the photo of Ted Bundy's victim and cockily informing the Joker that the bite mark was how they'd caught him.

"I mean he almost took out a piece of his face," Blakely sputtered. "I can't bring myself to look at it again."

"I'm coming in," she blurted, thanking whatever deity was listening that she'd had the foresight to delete the recording of her conversation with the Joker.

"No, no, don't do that," Blakely protested. "Burrows' wife is here, and she's threatening to sue. Walsh is on the phone with the lawyers now. You don't want to be in the middle of this tonight."

Reluctantly, Harley agreed, knowing there was nothing she could do. She said goodbye to Blakely and drifted back into the living room, feeling dazed as she sat down on the couch and returned her attention to the TV. But there was no way she could concentrate on the antics of Gotham's wealthiest citizens while she was wrestling with the fact that Burrows was laying in a hospital bed somewhere missing both his eyes because the Joker wanted to send her a message.

A message she didn't fully understand.

Maybe it was a response to the way they had parted. She'd told him he wouldn't see her again and left him sitting alone in the session room. It was possible this was to let her know he wasn't  _happy_  about that parting. That as far as he was concerned, they  _weren't_  done.

Harley got to her feet and paced her small living room, rubbing her arms as she tried to work through the Joker's motivations.

Why blind Burrows? He was one of the more obnoxious guards, and everyone knew he was prone to baiting the inmates. Was it possible that the Joker just  _snapped_  and attacked him, then left him with a bite mark as a parting gift? Something to let Harley know he'd been thinking about her?

That was the obvious answer, but it wasn't the  _right_  answer. The Joker didn't  _snap_. Everything was controlled and planned for a long-term payoff. It was  _all_  about the payoff. So how did blinding Burrows then biting him to let Harley know he was thinking about her fit into the equation? What was the long-term payoff this time?

It was an impossible question to answer without talking to him first, but Harley would likely  _never_  be allowed in the same room with him again after this. He would be placed in solitary confinement for at least a week to cool off - even if 'punishment' didn't work on psychopaths - and during that time the other guards would be sure to take out their anger over their colleague being brutalized on him.

Harley threw herself back on the couch and covered her face with her hands, wishing she'd never checked her phone. The doorbell rang, and her head shot up, paranoia pulsing through her as she slipped down the hallway and peered through the keyhole. But it was just the delivery boy with her food, and she sighed in exasperation, feeling stupid and overwrought as she paid him and tried to plaster on a nice,  _normal_  smile.

She tried to eat, but she was too anxious and jittery to do anything but nudge pilau rice around her plate as she thought about the Joker. Her brain was circling around and around and around what the attack on Burrows meant, why he did it, how it connected to her. And she  _needed_  to talk to him again to find out.

Bribing the guards to let her speak to him was one option, but she immediately shot it down because it was embarrassingly heavy-handed. That she was considering bribery in the first place was a hard pill to swallow. It suggested she wasn't being as rational and logical as she liked to paint herself.

After spending a few more hours on the couch obsessing over the Joker's attack, Harley finally took herself to the bathroom and dug out the old sleeping pills she'd been prescribed years earlier. She took two, reasoning they were out of date and less effective, and then she curled up in her bed and waited for the blissful relief of sleep.

* * *

When Harley arrived at Arkham the next morning, she was greeted with a flood with reporters, photographers and camera crews, and when they spotted her cautiously edging towards the front gate, they pounced.

_"Dr Quinzel! Does the Joker's attack on David Burrows mean he's crazier than we thought?"_

_"Doctor! Doctor! What is Arkham's policy for inmates if they violently attack the staff?"_

_"Dr Quinzel! Dr Quinzel! Why the Joker would bite an orderly?"_

_"Hello! Doctor! How did Vicki Vale get her hand's on Arkham's security footage?"_

Harley shrugged passed the reporters, keeping her mouth shut as she squeezed through Arkham's front gate and jogged up the front steps. The chorus of voices continued to echo behind her as she passed through the reception area, making her feel both persecuted and paranoid. And that last question about Vicki Vale made her head spin.

Once safely sequestered in her office, Harley opened the Gotham Gazette's homepage on her phone.

_"JOKER MUTILATES ORDERLY AT ARKHAM ASYLUM."_

A split image accompanied the headline. The first half an exterior shot of Arkham, the second half a grainy still of the Joker's painted face from a CCTV camera. He was smirking sinisterly, a promise of chaos and destruction that felt just as threatening now as it had during his so-called Reign of Terror, even if now he was behind bars.

"Shit," Harley hissed, slamming her phone down on her desk.

"You look well rested."

Harley looked up to find Walsh in his coat and hat hovering in the door, a sour look on his face.

"What the hell is this!" She demanded, showing him her phone screen. "Vicki Vale says she's seen our security footage. How did  _Vicki Vale_  get her hands on our security footage?"

"Obviously we have a leak," Walsh replied thinly, wrinkling his nose. "I'm sure the board will want to call a meeting to discuss."

"A leak?" Harley laughed, bewildered. "Who would leak our CCTV footage to the media?"

"Go about your day, as usual, Quinzel," Walsh snapped. "Blakely and I still need to go over this Joker interview with you."

Harley watched Walsh leave with her eyes narrowed, knowing instinctively that something was not right about how he was handling this. Arkham had never had a leak before, and Harley had seen plenty of things covered up in the time she'd been there. But the Joker attacking an orderly and the footage being released less than twenty-four hours later? Something about that wasn't right.

When it was time to go over the admission interview with Walsh and Blakely, both men feebly scolded her for not recording the third session which Harley was now more relieved than ever to have deleted. It wasn't a very productive conversation, all three of them were flustered and distracted knowing there was a hoard of reporters right outside the asylum, dogging every person who passed through the gates for a comment.

Harley learned the Joker had been taken to solitary confinement and that he would be there for a full week which sounded more lenient than she would have expected. All day, as she attempted to focus on her work, she was aware that the Joker was locked up in a small stone room three stories below her underground, and she had to convince herself multiple times that she wouldn't attempt to see him. She wanted to ask him why he'd attacked Burrows, but the question was more loaded than that, and Harley didn't want to  _want to_  ask as badly as she did.

Some reporters were still at the gate when Harley's shift finished at 6 PM. She still had work to get through and usually would have stuck around for a few more hours to finish it, but she was too distracted, and the only thing that would help clear her head was training.

She caught the metro a few stops past Crowne Towers to her gym and changed into a leotard and leggings there, then set about warming up on the mat, absorbing the familiar sounds of the gym to help focus her mind. She wasn't quite in the shape she'd been in as a teenager, but she was still strong and fast. The physical exertion and need for precision gymnastics required made it easy for her to block everything else out while she trained, which was precisely why she still did it.

After stretching, she pulled herself up on the beam, her favorite station, and worked on an old routine. She nearly fell three times before she found the concentration she needed to jump and leap and twist high in the air with only a few inches of leather and wood to catch herself on. Soon she felt that beloved sense of control return, even if the Joker and Arkham were hovering just over her shoulder. So she pushed herself harder, and harder, and harder, not stopping until the gym's janitor finally waved her out and locked the door behind her.

* * *

Harley was already awake when her alarm started singing the next morning. She slapped a hand down on her cracked screen to silence the birds and sighed unhappily as she thought about the monotony of the day ahead of her. It would be the same as the day before, perhaps less stressful with fewer reporters, but no different really. Uncharacteristic paranoia made Harley feel the need to check the Gazette's homepage, to make sure Vicki Vale wasn't reporting anything that would affect her day.

Her brow creased when she read the headline, not by Vale but another Gazette writer reporting that the Batman had been spotted in the warehouse district of Tricorner the night before. A year earlier, Batman sightings were a dime a dozen, but since Harvey Dent's murder the Batman had only been seen a handful of times, and those reports were often sensationalist stories blaming him for crimes that couldn't otherwise be explained. But this time there had been a full-blown police chase leading the GCPD to an abandoned warehouse. They'd lost him there, but when they searched the warehouse, they found the last of the Scarecrow's fear toxin, which was now in the custody of the MCU.

Harley drummed her fingers on her upper lip, trying to figure out the best way to share this news with Crane while also getting more information out of him. She was still interested in this whole R'as al Ghul story, even if he said it was superfluous. To be honest, Harley could do with some superfluous material in her life. If Crane had a fantastical story about a ninja from Tibet wanting his help to develop a drug that would turn Gotham into a psychotic hell hole well... of course Harley had questions.

She climbed out of bed, mulling over her strategy as she limped to the bathroom. Her body was aching from training too hard the night before, but it was satisfying. It made her feel like she'd worked for it. Her old gymnastics instructor's voice still lingered in the back of her head, telling her that if she wasn't hurting, she wasn't working hard enough. Similar to her PhD mentor's voice, most certainly still in her head, telling her if she didn't feel she had the right answers, she wasn't working hard enough.

Oh,  _sure_. With parental substitutes like those, who wouldn't have _'emotional issues.'_

The shower was lukewarm, just like it was every morning, and Harley stepped beneath the spray feeling like she wanted to rip the shower head out of the wall.

* * *

There was only a trickle of reporters outside Arkham when Harley arrived for work. She ran into Rosa on her way from the station, and together they breezed past the remaining media, Rosa muttering aggressively in Spanish under her breath which Harley agreed with whole-heartedly.

It was Tuesday, and Harley's new workload included trialing the latest Elliot drug on inmates who had committed non-violent crimes but were still deemed unfit for Federal prison or Blackgate due to their mental health. This was part of the reason Blakely had been weeding out the mob types Crane had declared criminally insane to keep them out of prison, but there were almost certainly a few of them left in the bunch.

Take Sammy 'The Snake' Romano, as he called himself. Harley watched the orderlies strap him into the chair in the A Wing session room and felt personally offended when he started performing 'duhhh's and 'dohhh I dunno doc's for her when she'd seen him speaking thoroughly competently to the orderlies out in the hall.

Harley tapped off the recorder and folded her arms over her chest, her mouth puckering.

"Why don't we cut the shit," she suggested. "You're sane. You're one of the mob's lackeys that Crane put in here."

Sammy looked between the tape recorder on the table and Harley's unamused face then offered her a lascivious smirk.

"I like your style, sweetheart, "he chuckled. "Falcone paid Crane enough to keep me in here. I got one more year, and I'm out."

"I don't know if you're aware," Harley replied flatly. "But both Falcone and Crane are locked up just down the hall."

"Sure, I'm aware," Sammy shrugged. "Lemme tell you something, go have a word with Sal Maroni. He'll take care of ya so long as you keep your mouth shut."

"Mr Romano," Harley stood slowly, slipping her hands into her lab coat as she rounded the table. "I can keep you in here, legitimately if you like." She braced her hip against the table and peered down at him. "A few rounds of electroshock therapy, maybe a few... experimental drug trials. You'll fit right in, hmm?"

She met his gaze evenly, a smirk slipping onto her lips when she saw his entitled mob enforcer schtick fall apart. Now he looked nervous.

"Look, uh... Doc, I didn't mean to cause offense," Sammy backtracked carefully.

"Sure you didn't," Harley waved at the CCTV camera and the session room's door buzzed loudly before unlocking, allowing two orderlies to come in.

"So, what's gonna happen?" Sammy demanded as the orderlies unchained his feet from the floor and forced him to stand so they could frogmarch him out. "Hey, doc, whaddya gonna do!"

"I guess you'll just have to wait and see," Harley replied airily, enjoying watching him panic as they dragged him away.

But she felt rattled once he was gone, unsure where that burst of sadism had come from. She considered herself to be quite a _nice_  person even if she could be a little...  _relentless_  in her pursuits occasionally. The inmates were rude and abusive to her all the time, but she never let it get to her - or at least that's what she told herself.

Not sure how to feel about her behavior, Harley acted on an impulse that had been nagging her for two whole days. She took the elevator down to the basement, determined to get some clarity on at least one thing that was been bothering her.

It was wet and dank in the basement; the walls made from crumbling brick and mortar inlaid with rusted iron. There were lower levels still, where patients used to be tortured a hundred years earlier - or even a year ago when Crane was in charge. Solitary confinement was one level above that, still deep underground and only a shade above torture if leaving a person alone for a week at a time could be considered anything less. That was the point of solitary, to punish and control the inmates.

Harley wasn't sure the Joker could be either punished or controlled.

Chavez and Fogarty were standing guard outside the small iron door leading into the solitary wing. They were talking in low voices with their heads close together; a phone squeezed between them — the Gazette article about Burrows, no doubt.

"Hi," Harley said, sounding tired. She was exhausted, physically, and emotionally.

They both turned to look at her, looking like they'd been caught at something. They exchanged a glance before Fogarty headed for the elevator to give Harley and Chavez some privacy.

"How can I help you, Dr Quinzel?" Chavez asked, polite but suspicious.

Harley shrugged. "I'm not sure," she said awkwardly, shoving her hands into her lab coat and looking at the damp floor before she raised her eyes to Chavez. "Has he mentioned me?" She asked quietly, knowing she was making herself vulnerable, but somehow feeling it was better to know and be vulnerable than to not.

"Well," Chavez's face twisted, he looked conflicted. "Yes, he asked about you this morning."

"Right," Harley nodded slowly, unsure how to feel.

"Did he get in your head?" Chavez asked sympathetically, and Harley sighed unhappily, hoping it wasn't as apparent to everyone else.

"Can we keep this," she gestured between them. "Between us."

He nodded, giving her a tight smile. "Sure thing."

Harley returned to her office, feeling drained and confused, and the only thing she could think of to do was go to the gym and train. So that's what she did, training hard until the gym closed and she had nowhere to go but home.

* * *

It was Wednesday morning, and Harley couldn't bring herself to get out of bed. That was roughly when she decided she was depressed and should probably see a doctor about it. It had been a stressful week. Interviewing the Joker and coping with the repercussions of his attack on Burrows. An attack she was sure was a message for her, something she was glad no one else knew. But she was disgusted with herself for letting him 'get in her head' like Chavez suggested. It made sense that she would be overwhelmed and depressed; she just needed to make an appointment with a doctor, she told herself. Or maybe open up about her past to a therapist, work through her feelings, take up yoga and meditation. That all sounded reasonable and normal.

But then she saw the headline on the Gotham Gazette's homepage, and everything changed.

_"INCOMPETENCE AND CORRUPTION: ARKHAM DOCTOR HARLEEN QUINZEL MISMANAGED JOKER CASE"_

Somehow, Vicki Vale had gotten her hands both on the Joker's admission interview and a source to tell her about the process of completing the interview. Vale also named Harley as the psychologist in charge of Arkham's drug trials, all but refocusing the whole Elliot Pharmaceutical scandal entirely on her.

_"Quinzel, it is reported, found it difficult to be in the same room as the Joker, potentially due to her inexperience. She has worked at Arkham for less than a year, primarily running the institution's corruption-plagued drug testing for Elliot Pharmaceutical, leading some to suggest that she should never have been assigned the Joker's case, which has been marked by mismanagement and incompetence thus far..."_

Harley jumped out of bed, fuming as she hurriedly tied back her hair and got dressed, skipping her lukewarm shower and other morning routines.

Oh no, she was not depressed. She was fucking _furious._

* * *

When Harley got to Arkham, late for her shift and wearing wrinkled trousers with a shirt buttoned too low, the media were at the gate again. This time they were there just for her, wanting her comment on the Gazette's story, or anything she had to say about her work for Elliot Pharmaceutical and the Kane Company. Oh, and if she blamed herself for the maiming of David Burrows.

No doubt whoever had leaked the CCTV footage of the Joker's attack on Burrows had also leaked the admission interview and given Vale a highly edited rendition of how the interview had been completed. There was a tiny pool of people who could have provided all three to Vale, and at the top of Harley's list of suspects was Walsh. She went to his office before she went to her own, but his secretary told her he would arrive later that morning to meet with the board.

Harley had utterly forgotten about the board meeting, which was now sure to focus on her and the asylum's leaking problems. She headed for her office to calm herself down, her suspicions over Walsh running wild. What she couldn't understand was  _why_. Why would Walsh want to make Arkham look bad?

Members of staff popped their heads into Harley's office all morning to tell her how outrageous everything Vicki Vale said about her was. How the Gazette was nothing but a rag that printed sensationalist stories, and all of Gotham knew Vale was a hack with no credibility. The solidarity with her colleagues was nice, but Harley was still fuming, making it nearly impossible to get any work done at her desk, and by lunchtime she gave up, pulling on her lab coat and storming down to B Wing, where the only person she could speak to resided.

Crane looked up from his copy of Horney's  _The Neurotic Personality of Our Time_  when Harley blew into his cell, the door slamming shut behind her with a _CLANG_  and a loud buzz as she flung herself into the chair beside his cot.

"Harleen," he nodded at her, setting his book aside and crossing his slippered feet at the ankle. "I take it something is wrong?"

Harley smoothed back her hair and tightened the bun at the back of her head, trying to collect herself.

"The Joker attacked an orderly," she started, and then explained the ordeal with Burrows, the leak of the CCTV footage, and now the admission interview leak and Vicki Vale's depiction of Harley. She refrained from mentioning the biting - Crane did not need to know about that.

"Walsh," Crane's lip curled when she'd finished.

"Exactly," Harley spat. "But I don't understand why."

"I couldn't tell you," Crane replied thinly. "Except to say that he believes he will somehow gain from...  _exploiting_  the Joker's presence here."

"He's a second away from letting the trust fund brigade pay to see him," Harley shook her head. "Like a sideshow."

Crane exhaled loudly through his nose, his mouth pinched. "He has turned my asylum into a joke," he said bitterly.

"There's more," Harley added, not voicing aloud that it was Crane who had destroyed Arkham's reputation. "Your fear toxin. The MCU found a supply of it at a warehouse in Tricorner." She pulled her phone out of her lab coat and found the story on the Gotham Gazette's website, then handed her phone to Crane, only realizing once he had it that she was giving an inmate her phone, giving him access to all manner of problematic things. Maybe she  _was_  incompetent after all.

Crane read the article, his lips twitching sourly, and when he passed Harley back her phone, his hand was trembling.

"The Batman," he hissed through clenched teeth, his nostrils flaring in anger. "I don't know why I'm surprised he's back."

Harley's eyebrows jumped up into her forehead. "The Batman?" She frowned, confused. "They chased him into the warehouse - it sounds like it was an accident they found it at all."

"Oh, please, Harleen," Crane sneered. "It's no accident. The city was demoralized after the Joker's psychotic clown show and without Harvey Dent to stop them, the mob is up and running again. If the Batman thinks it's business as usual for Sal Maroni he could never stay away, regardless of if the city hates him or not."

"You know an awful lot about the mob," Harley narrowed her eyes, watching Crane's pale blue eyes dart away from hers. "And the Batman."

He licked his lips, looking like he was being forced to eat something foul. "Carmine Falcone's drug routes into the city were the easiest way for me to import the blue flower I needed to make the fear toxin. I had to go into business with him, which meant doing each other... favors outside of the remit of our original agreement."

"Oh..." Harley replied dumbly, taken aback by this revelation.

"Harleen," Crane twisted, so he was facing her fully, his pale eyes projecting urgency. "I like to think we can trust each other."

"I think we can," she confirmed warily.

"You know I am not insane," Crane continued. "I do not belong in here."

Harley's eyes widened. "Don't ask me that," she said before he could go any further. "You know what you did was illegal and even if you don't belong in here that means you belong in Blackgate, and I don't want to see you in there. At least here it's... comfortable."

 _"Comfortable_ ," Crane sneered. "How quaint."

Harley indulged Crane for as long as she could, edging him away from escaping Arkham - which in itself made her doubt his mental competency - and eventually, she made her excuses and left, hoping he would come to his senses before she next saw him.

Then it was time for the board meeting, which she was dreading. They usually were dull, administrative affairs, or otherwise focused on Harley's work for Elliot, but today she had a feeling it would be something completely different.

Around a large mahogany table inlaid with gold leaf swirls sat two women and four men, all looking grim. There was Marie Kane from the Kane Company and her cousin, Jacob Kane, a middle-aged alcoholic still living off his trust fund. Between them was their nephew Bobby Kane, a playboy philanderer the whole city knew from his role on  _Made in the Diamond District_  and frequent appearances in the tabloids. The other board members were elderly, aristocratic types with links to the Arkham family. An old man who looked like he'd been around since the asylum had been built, a woman wearing a dead fox around her neck and a look on her face like she was smelling sewage, and a distant relation of Jeremiah Arkham who bore a creepy resemblance to the asylum founder's portrait hanging on the wall behind him.

Harley sat beside Blakely and prepared herself, ignoring the anxious looks he was shooting her.

"Dr Quinzel," Marie Kane said with a tight smile, an excess of plastic surgery limiting her facial mobility. "These are unusual circumstances. We've been so happy with your work for the asylum thus far."

"Thus far?" Harley replied indignantly, struggling not to look to Blakely for help.

"Dr Quinzel," the Arkham relation butted in. "The board is very concerned with how much negative press the Joker is bringing the asylum."

"As am I," Harley countered, folding her arms across her chest defensively.

"Dr Walsh says you think it would be best to treat the Joker with talk therapy," Arkham's relation rolled his eyes. "Do you truly think that will keep him from murdering and maiming the staff? Wouldn't it be better to keep him in his cell as was originally agreed until he's moved again?"

"I don't think that," Harley protested, bewildered, she turned to find Walsh and scowled at him. "I do  _not_  think the Joker would benefit from talk therapy."

"Dr Quinzel, your specialty is pharmacology," Marie Kane was saying. "What medications have you prescribed the Joker?"

"None," Harley replied curtly, and all members of the board began to mumble discontentedly amongst themselves. "He is not receiving treatment of any kind!" She half-shouted over the din of voices.

"No medication at all?" The woman wearing a fox demurred, fingering the tail of the stuffed animal. "That is very concerning, Ms Quinzel."

"Why wouldn't you medicate him?" Jacob Kane looked aghast. "He's a monster!"

"I'd need drugs just to be around that guy," Bobby Kane chuckled.

"I think you've made a grave mistake there, Dr Qunizel," Arkham's relation shook his head, disappointed. "Perhaps if he had been medicated he would not have attacked Mr Burrows."

"We agreed that there would be no treatment," Harley insisted. Her skin was starting to feel hot, and she was struggling to stay seated. "That includes medication and therapy. All we have done is complete the admission interview  _at your request._ "

"The citizens of Gotham want to feel safe," Arkham's relation shook his head. "That is why the Joker is here - it is the safest place for him - but if there are orderlies being blinded and bitten we can't claim to be making the city feel safe, can we?"

The elderly man agreed heartily. "Indeed! Instead, they're treated to yet more fear!"

"That's another point," said Marie Kane. "How _did_  that footage leak?"

"We're looking into it," Walsh spoke up quickly. "Dr Quinzel, you will no longer be working with the Joker. Your time is more valuable spent elsewhere."

The look on Walsh's face suggested he thought nothing about Harley was valuable.

"Yes, I agree," the woman with the fox intoned. "Dr Walsh, couldn't you make time to...  _deal_  with him?"

"I shall try to make time, Magda," Walsh said firmly, a shitty little smile on his shitty little face. "But truly, it may be interesting to speak with him say, for the sake of a book?"

"Isn't it a little soon for a book?" Marie Kane frowned. "Shouldn't we give Gotham time to heal?"

"Of course, of course," Walsh agreed airily. "But eventually, perhaps... we would interview him for a book..."

"So long as it's you speaking to him and not  _Ms_  Quinzel," Magda agreed, eyeing Harley warily.

Harley had a sudden vision of strangling her with the fox.

"Yes, no doubt Dr Quinzel is talented in other ways," Arkham's relation added, frowning at Harley as if she was something he didn't fully understand. "But I think we can all agree she has failed with the Joker."

Harley's eyes widened, and her mouth nearly fell open, unable to believe what she was hearing.

"Yes, yes. Quinzel is off the Joker's case, we all agree she's not qualified," Walsh placated.

Harley looked down the table at him, her mouth puckered, and her eyes blazing. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, warning her to keep her mouth shut, the coward.

"Superb," Magda reached for her cane and began to stand. "It's a dreadful situation. I don't know how you put up with it, Murphy."

"Ah, well.." Walsh shrugged and gave her a confident smile. "It's what I signed up for."

Feeling as though there was a small bomb about to go off inside her, Harley stood and marched out of the room, not able to listen to whatever else Walsh might have to say. She turned left and then right and then left again, so flushed with anger and humiliation that she wasn't paying attention to her route - she just needed to keep moving.

Suddenly it all made sense. Walsh wanted to write a book about the Joker, and he was testing the water with the leaks. He allowed Harley to take the blame for the bad press they'd received, her 'incompetence' with the Joker was to blame, not the actual leaks themselves. Then he left her to be ravaged by a board who only knew what Walsh told them.

They were cowards and fools.

Her heart was pounding in her chest, and her vision started to blur around the edges, the hallway in front of her twisting like a funhouse. She imagined what it would feel like to rip out Walsh's beady little eyes with her fingers just like the Joker had done to Burrows. Just slip her thumbs in and pluck them right out while he screamed for her to stop. But she wouldn't stop. She wouldn't even  _try_  to stop herself.

Her vision took on a red tint, like dye released in water, and she stumbled, grabbing the wall to keep herself upright. The hallway was still shifting and twisting from side to side, and though she could feel her feet on the ground, the rest of her seemed to rise up, up and away like a balloon released in the wind. She lost her balance and slipped down the wall to sit on the floor, her head falling back against the old stones.

_"Harleen!"_

Blakely was squatting in front of her, shining his penlight in her eyes, his expression concerned as he took her pulse.

She felt herself return to her body; the balloon popped and fluttered back down to earth, and the red slowly retreated from her vision as Blakely's weary face came into sharp focus.

"Nurse!"

"No," she mumbled sluggishly, grabbing his arm. She cleared her throat, trying to pull herself together. "No, I'm okay. I'm just... hungover," she lied weakly.

Blakely shook his head. "I'm sorry for what happened in the board meeting. Walsh is awful."

"Awful," Harley chuckled, still sitting on the ground with her head against the wall. She didn't feel ready to move yet.

"You should go home," Blakely said, his mouth forming a hard, thin line. He reached for her wrist to take her pulse. "You're very pale."

Harley nodded weakly, wanting nothing more than to get the hell out of Arkham. She let Blakely help her to her feet and walk with her - but not hold her arm - to her office. Once there, she offered him a strained smile as she exchanged her lab coat for her jacket.

"I'm okay," she promised, shrugging on her jacket, even as Blakely continued to stare at her with deep concern wrinkling his face. "I'll just go home and rest."

At Blakely's insistence, she let him call her a cab. There were still reporters at the gate, and Harley's head was still spinning, so it was a relief to be tucked in the back of a taxi instead of having to wade through the journalists and photographers shouting at her. Once the car sneaked out the front gates, the guard shouting at the reporters to move aside, and pulled onto Elizabeth Arkham Avenue, Harley finally exhaled a breath she'd been holding since she'd fallen in the corridor.

What the fuck was happening.

* * *

The next day was Thursday, and much to Harley's relief, there were no reporters outside Arkham. She arrived well in advance of her shift to start making a dent in the work that was steadily piling up on her desk and tried to tell herself that everything was fine. As if her boss hadn't had her slandered in the press to help him garner interest in a book about the Joker. When she thought about it, it made her so angry she had to stop what she was doing and take a deep breath, promising herself that Walsh would get what he deserved, eventually. Whether that be poor book sales, a knife in the gut from a mugging gone wrong (so typical in Gotham) or a slow and painful death from some slow and painful form of cancer.

These were dark thoughts, but they calmed her down enough so she could get back to her work.

At lunchtime, she caught the metro over to the University District just south of Downtown. She had a lunch date with her mentor Dr Joan Leland, the head of criminology at Gotham University.

They met at a cafe on campus near the psych building where they ordered tea and panini, reliving lunches they'd shared while Harley was still working toward her PhD.

Joan was in her sixties and aging gracefully, just like she did everything else. Her light ebony skin was still smooth, and she kept her black hair in a short, practical bob. Everything about Joan was practical, from her neat pastel pantsuits to her approach to clinical psychology. When she was younger, Harley had tried to emulate this practical grace in every way she could. She'd always thought if she could be like Joan Leland, then she would have finally made it. Practical, graceful, respected. That was all twenty-one-year-old Harley had ever wanted.

They spoke about the new teachers who had been granted tenure over the summer and how the latest batch of post-grad students were handling their first year, and as she always did Joan attempted to convince Harley to come back to Gotham University to teach. Now more than ever, Harley was resistant to the idea, but she said she would consider it, just like she always did.

Finally, Joan got around to the real reason she'd asked Harley to come for lunch.

"How are you holding up, Harleen?" She asked over her cup of tea. "It was beastly of the Gazette to publish those lies about you."

Harley sighed, not sure how she was supposed to talk about any of this without getting worked up, something she could never allow Joan to see.

"I'm not doing well," she admitted, thinking back to the previous day when she'd nearly fainted. "I'm trying to focus on work."

"I think that's best," Joan nodded. "This will pass, as everything does. You're always so calm and collected, Harleen. It's very impressive."

Harley smiled thinly and took a sip of her tea to hide her face.

"How is Neville?" Joan continued, entirely skipping the obvious topic of the Joker. Harley knew Joan believed he wasn't worth their mental energy, just as she had believed before seeing him in person that first day nearly two weeks ago when he'd been admitted. Then everything had changed.

"He's fine," Harley replied, her mind now on the Joker. "Stressed from everything that's happened lately. I hope he retires soon."

Joan nodded, understanding. "And how's your personal life?"

Harley raised her eyebrows at this because Joan never asked her about her personal life. Joan's life, like Harley's, was dedicated to her work, though lately, Harley had been thinking a 'personal life' might be something she was missing. But what was she supposed to do, get on a dating app? Force herself to go to clubs with Dana for the sake of saying she had a personal life?

"Fine," Harley answered evasively.

"No young men in your life?" Joan pushed.

"No," Harley said shortly, wondering why she was suddenly being pushed on this by the woman she'd modeled her life on, including her lack of personal life.

"You had a few boyfriends when you were here," Joan said thoughtfully.

 _Wrong_ , Harley thought but didn't say out loud. She'd had a few (quite a few)  _flings_  while she'd been getting her PhD, but never boyfriends or relationships.

"I know you find it difficult..." Joan continued slowly, meeting Harley's eye. "After what happened when you were in undergrad."

"I suppose," Harley said cooly, trying to hide her irritation that Joan would bring  _that_  up.  _That_  had been traumatizing.  _That_  had been when she stopped going by 'Harley.'  _That_  had been when she'd refocused and found her calling. The only reason Joan knew about  _that_  was because she had been the therapist the University assigned Harley after  _that_  had happened, and they had never spoken about it since.

"That was a long time ago," Harley said calmly. "I work eighty-hour weeks. That doesn't leave much time for a personal life."

"And are you sure you find that kind of work rewarding?" Joan frowned. "We put the same hours in here, but at least we're... doing something important."

Harley should have been annoyed that Joan was suggesting the work she did at Arkham wasn't important, but after the last week, she was inclined to agree. Corruption and incompetence ran amok both at the asylum and among their benefactors at Kane, but that did not make the academic life Joan was dangling in front of her any more appealing. At least at Arkham, she was working with  _interesting_  people. Academia was so...  _dry._

"Tell me about what you're working on at the moment," Harley pivoted before Joan could accidentally convince her she didn't want to live any of the lives she had spent years studying and preparing for.

* * *

On the metro home that evening, Harley contemplated buying a bottle (or two) of wine to help her relax. She was back to thinking she should probably make an appointment to see a doctor about prescribing her an anti-depressant. Or maybe muscle relaxers considering every time she saw or thought about Walsh her hands twitched into fists.

She skipped the wine and ordered Thai food, enough to feed a village so she wouldn't have to think about sustenance for a few days. Then she changed into her pajamas and made a cup of tea before flopping on the couch to watch an episode of  _Made in the Diamond District._

Harley yawned as she clicked on the TV, her eyelids already heavy as she flipped through channels, stopping short when she was abruptly confronted with the image of Walsh.

Walsh on TV.

Walsh sitting across from Mike Engel on the nightly news.

"No fucking way," she muttered. An anxious feeling crept into the pit of her stomach, and she sat up a little straighter, her sleepiness vanishing.

"Tell us, if you can," Engel was saying, his face composed in a frown of professional interest. "Why are people saying that Arkham is corrupt and mismanaged?"

"That is fundamentally incorrect," Walsh replied breezily, squinting at Engel through his piggy little eyes. "It's possible that the specter of Jonathan Crane still looms over Arkham. Now, I understand it's a scary old building, and that's fine, but there has been great change in the last year when the board brought me in. We don't get enough credit for that. Remember, no one wanted that job. Crane left a huge mess for me to clean up, but we got there in the end. Now Arkham is a high functioning facility that meets every code of conduct laid out by both the city and the state."

"How is it that Jonathan Crane came to be Director of Arkham?" Engel pressed. "It seems he was given a lot of power very quickly. How did the board not realize who they were hiring?"

"Well, Jonathan Crane is an incredibly intelligent man," Walsh explained. "And he's also a sociopath. You see, the sociopath is an extremely manipulative personality with absolutely no capacity for empathy. You'll often find sociopaths to be very high functioning, successful people, like a high achieving person on Wall Street. Climbing the corporate ladder without concern for how their efforts affect others. This is how Jonathan Crane became so successful so young."

Engel looked troubled. "And how would you characterize the Joker?" He asked slowly. "It seems clear that success in a traditional sense was not of interest to him."

"Yes, yes, of course," Walsh plastered on a sympathetic smile for Engel, who had been one of the Joker's hostages during the 'Reign of Terror.' "We refer to him as Inmate 0801 - we don't like to encourage him in his ah, clown fantasy. It's very destructive to allow a patient to continue living out their delusions."

Harley scoffed at this misrepresentation of the Joker, and Engel didn't look convinced by the analysis either.

Walsh carried on, not noticing.

"Inmate 0801 is a psychopath, a lower functioning, more violent version of Crane's affliction. Inmate 0801 is a nihilist and a sadist. He has no capacity for empathy, he has no conscience, and he does not see the difference between good and evil."

 _Wrong_ , Harley thought on the last point.

"You say since you joined Arkham, there's been a reformation," Engel said, looking like he'd had enough discussion about the Joker for one lifetime. "But Neville Blakely worked under Crane for five years, and he was also assigned to the Joker. Doesn't that worry you?"

"Neville Blakely is a man of fine character who has worked at Arkham for over thirty years," Walsh said with a simpering smile that suggested he was full of shit. "He is highly, highly qualified to speak to and treat Inmate 0801. However, as I mentioned, 0801 is a sadistic psychopath, and as Gotham saw first hand, he likes to play games with people. Dr Blakely, well, he's a grandfather. I can certainly understand how 0801 could get under his skin to the point of Neville not being able to do his job."

Harley cringed, hoping Blakely wasn't watching. The anxious feeling in her stomach grew stronger.

"When Dr Blakely was removed from the Joker's case, you could have brought in a specialist or treated him yourself, but you assigned Harleen Quinzel. Some are suggesting she was only given the job because she's a woman."

"Oh God," Harley buried her face in her hands, knowing she was going to loathe what was coming next.

"Well, that's simply not true!" Walsh huffed boorishly. "Harleen Quinzel is an outstanding psychologist, specifically in a research capacity. That's why we brought her into Arkham, for her outstanding clinical work, which she continues to do for us. Now, I know some people are saying she's too inexperienced, too naïve, too idealistic, what have you. But the reality is she's young and eager to prove herself. I, for one, applaud that mindset, and as her mentor, of course, I want to encourage that behavior."

Harley lifted her head to stare at the television. The mug she was holding fell out of her hand and landed with a dull thud on the carpet, tea spilling across the floor.

"And do you regret putting someone as inexperienced as Dr Quinzel in the same room as the Joker?"

Harley stood up swiftly, her jaw clenched, and her eyes stinging from staring so hard at the screen.

"You know, I don't. It's true, perhaps her not being well-versed in working with dangerous inmates may have emboldened Inmate 0801 and led to the maiming of David Burrows. It's possible, but we'll never know for sure. What I do know is Dr Quinzel was able to get 0801 to answer questions about his past, which is very, very impressive. Now, does that information make up for the fact that a man has lost his sight? It's hard for me to justify that statement, but I stand by every one of my employees even though -"

Unable to hear any more about her own alleged incompetence, Harley flew at the television, grabbing the screen and flinging it to the floor where it bounced and cracked.

She shrieked in frustration and looked wildly around the room, her eyes settling on the lamp beside the couch. Her breath left her in a ragged pant as she grabbed the lamp and fell to her knees beside the TV, slamming it down on the screen. It shattered in her fist, a long piece of glass embedding in the side of her hand, making her hiss in pain and frustration.

"Oh,  _fuck_ ," she gasped, sitting back on her heels and cradling her hand to her chest. "Fuck," she said again, more quietly, and let her head fall forward.

She sat there for a while, breathing deeply as she tried to control her emotions. They were spinning wildly, hate and anger and resentment, and she was clinging to her rational understanding that none of those feelings were helpful. None of those were okay to feel. She could not act on them. She could not.

Still feeling like she would snap if anything new caught her off guard, Harley forced herself to her feet and stumbled to the bathroom. Rivulets of blood were dripping down her forearm, landing in fat drops on the carpet, but she hardly felt pain from the wound. She pulled out the shard of glass with tweezers then disinfected the cut before applying a bandage. She estimated she wouldn't need stitches but wrapped her hand in medical tape, trying to make it look like an injury from gymnastics.

When she'd finished, she sat down slowly on the toilet seat and covered her face with her un-bandaged hand, feeling lost.

Then she took two of those old sleeping pills and went to bed.

* * *

It was morning again. Friday. Harley woke up to birds singing sweetly. Her eyes opened, and she inhaled sharply as she remembered the night before.

She wasn't angry, and she wasn't depressed, but she was scared in a way she hadn't been in years. Not since  _that_  happened.

But there was nothing to do about it except move on and make a doctor's appointment to look into medication options. She kept meaning to do that.

Harley numbly went about her morning routine before she cleaned up what she could of the broken television and lamp. She rode the elevator down to the lobby with her drone-like neighbors and parted from them to get on the train to the Narrows. She walked up the street to Arkham, telling herself everything would be okay if she held it together for one more day. And then the day after that. And then the day after that.

And so on.

A few hours into her day, Walsh's secretary Lynette came down to Harley's office. She looked nervous, probably because she'd also seen her boss's interview on GCN the night before.

"Dr Quinzel?" She said, poking her head through the partially opened door. "Marie Kane wants to invite you to lunch with her this afternoon. Will that be a problem?"

Harley wanted to groan and pound on her desk with her fists. Lunch with Marie Kane was the last thing she wanted. But she nodded dutifully and told Lynette to send her the details.

A few hours later on her way into Midtown, Harley was mulling over why Marie Kane wanted to take her for lunch, but all she could come up with was that she was being fired in person.

Marie seemed to think it was appropriate to take Harley to lunch at the Ritz, and as Harley waited with the maître d' she looked around the Neptune's Palace-themed restaurant feeling woefully out of place. There were just so many mermaid murals and golden tridents... Even in her current mood, with her bandaged hand still throbbing, she almost wanted to laugh, or cry, or maybe throw herself on the floor and pitch a massive tantrum.

"I'm so sorry I'm late!" Marie gushed when she arrived, a silk Hermes scarf around her neck and a designer bag swinging from her wrist.

Once they were seated at Marie's favorite table (beneath a bronze sculpture of Neptune) and given their menus, Marie leaned in conspiratorially, and Harley leaned in too, intrigued.

"Dr Quinzel, I want you to know how impressed I was with how you handled the board meeting," she said, trying for sincere even though her paralyzed eyebrows made it difficult for her to convey anything.

"Thank you," Harley said cautiously, bewildered because she most certainly had  _not_  handled it well at all.

"I don't know why Murphy insisted on throwing you under the bus to explain this bad press, but you know Magda and Elias, they're just... old fashioned, and the rest tend to go along with them." She sighed, trying to make her face sympathetic. "You know we believe you do excellent work at Arkham, and I couldn't possibly imagine what speaking to that...  _monster_  must have been like."

"Thank you, Mrs Kane," Harley said politely, unsure where she was going with this.

"So I just wanted to make sure," Marie gave her a supportive little smile. "That we're all still on the same page about the new Elliot products. I wouldn't want this...  _pressure_  from the media to make you unwilling to work with us."

Harley hadn't even considered  _not_  continuing her work for them, and Marie suggesting she  _might_ made Harley all the more suspicious that there was something nefarious going on at Elliot Pharmaceutical.

"I'm not going anywhere, Mrs Kane," Harley smiled her most genuine smile, and she could see Marie physically relax.

Oh yeah. Whatever it was, it was  _really_  bad.

Marie's eyes suddenly lit up when she spotted something behind Harley, giving a delighted little laugh as she pushed her chair back and got to her feet.

Harley looked over her shoulder and was surprised to see two men she recognized and a tall woman she didn't. One of the men she knew from the brochure she'd been given when she bought her apartment. Weak-chinned with a full head of gray hair, it was Bertrum Crowne, the CEO of the Crowne Group. The second man she recognized from the files Gordon had given her. His mug shot had been there. Salvatore Maroni.

"Bertie, what a lovely surprise!" Marie cooed as the trio made their way over to their table, all smiles and happy sounds as they kissed Marie on both cheeks.

"And Sal! You never make it up this way around lunchtime."

"Bertie convinced me the Ritz do a good steak. How could I say no?" Maroni smirked, allowing Marie to kiss him.

"Sofia, it's so lovely to see you," Marie continued, giving the statuesque, rail-thin woman a hug. "We have  _so_  missed you in Gotham. It's a delight to have you back. Though I can't  _imagine_  growing weary of Italy!"

"Five years was long enough," Sofia, purred, her heavy-lidded eyes drifting to Harley when Marie released her.

Harley couldn't help but think there was something intentionally grotesque about this woman. From her talon-like nails and gaunt cheeks to her Christmas ornament-sized wedding ring and painfully high heels. She looked Harley over, her red lips curling ironically.

"And who is your friend, Marie," she asked in that same sultry purr.

"How rude of me!" Marie tittered. "This is Dr Harleen Quinzel, from Arkham Asylum."

Harley stood and offered her hand to each of them, her attention lingering on Maroni.

"Nice to meet ya, Dr Quinzel," Maroni's eyes jumped from Harley's tight bun to her sensible leather shoes, and his smirk seemed to grow as if there was something deeply amusing about how she looked. He radiated entitlement and power, and as Harley met his eye, she tried to remember what she could from Dent's investigation into him. Dangerous. Corrupt. Slippery. So why was he having lunch at the Ritz with trust fund brigade types? And how did _Marie_  know him so well?

"Nice to meet you all," Harley said politely.

"Oh,  _Bertie_ , you should invite Dr Quinzel to the gala next month!" Marie clapped her hands together. "Lulu would  _adore_  her."

"Absolutely!" Crowne beamed at Harley, but she could tell it was for Marie's sake. "We'll get your invite in the mail."

"You'll have to excuse us," Sofia purred. "We have a reservation at the cigar lounge Downtown."

"Oh, Sofia," Marie gushed. "You're so brave going to those boys' clubs!"

Sofia's upper lip curled into something between a smirk and a grimace as she agreed that yes, she was very brave.

When Harley and Marie were alone again, the conversation turned frivolous. Marie told Harley about her daughter Faffy Kane-Hill's wedding plans ("Of course once she marries Kenneth she'll just be Faffy Kane - don't tell anyone, but Kenneth is actually her second cousin twice removed!") and how her cousin Jacob was running the publishing arm of Kane into the ground, ("He's like a miniature Bruce Wayne, I can't  _tell_  you how stressful it's been on his wife") and other high society gossip that Harley had zero interest in.

On the journey back to Arkham, Harley's thoughts lingered on Sal Maroni, who was the head of the mob according to Harvey Dent's investigation, yet seemed comfortable operating in plain sight. Weren't mobsters supposed to lurk in the shadows instead of swan around in public? Her curiosity over why he'd been with Bertrum Crowne and that Sofia woman was growing, no doubt in part to distract herself.

Her brain refused to be productive once she got back to her office, so Harley decided to go to B Wing and speak to Crane, hoping maybe he could shed some more light on all this mob business.

Crane was standing beside the small window his cell afforded him, staring out at the rapidly setting sun when Harley entered. She took her seat in the chair bolted to the floor, waiting for him to acknowledge her, which he finally did with a withering look as he lowered himself onto the cot to face her.

"Harleen," he said sourly. "This is becoming a very common occurrence."

"I was wondering," Harley replied, deciding she didn't have anything to lose by jumping straight in. "What you know about Salvatore Maroni."

"Maroni," Crane's pale eyes narrowed. "Why are  _you_  interested in Maroni?"

Okay, Harley thought, perhaps she should have played this less directly.

"You know I'm running drug trials for Elliot Pharmaceutical," she said haltingly, hoping she could bluff Crane. "They're embroiled in some kind of corruption scandal. Today I met with Marie Kane, and Maroni turned up and... they seemed pretty friendly."

Crane pushed a flop of dark hair off his forehead, nodding. "So you want to know if you're inadvertently involved in some form of mob-based corruption." When Harley nodded, he continued in his driest voice, "I can almost certainly tell you yes, you probably are."

"Really?" Harley's eyes widened.

"Of course," Crane said bitterly. "This is Gotham. Everyone is corrupt."

Harley deflated somewhat, feeling this was pretty weak reasoning or at least not very compelling. She found herself in the rare position of not possessing a follow-up question, too in the dark about the subject matter to find the path that would get her answers.

But then Crane filled in the blanks for her.

"At least Maroni is a step in a more civilized direction," he said blithely. "Carmine Falcone was a nihilist who thought of himself as a king. Maroni is more... egalitarian... easier to work with."

"You... worked with Maroni?" Harley tried not to sound surprised. She supposed if Crane worked with one mobster, why not work with one or two more?

"After I...  _recovered_..." He shot Harley a look suggesting she should comment on his 'recovery' at her peril. "I learned the Batman had shut down most of the traditional routes the mob used to get drugs into the city. They were desperate for a product. So I provided them with one."

"You sold the fear toxin to the mob?" Harley's mouth nearly fell open at this revelation, which only served to show her how far Crane had indeed fallen.

"Yes. Maroni brought all of the gangs and families together, organized their finances, stopped their petty drug wars. So when he pitched me a dollar figure, I agreed, and they brought me into the fold." His lip curled into a nasty little smile. "Of course, my toxin isn't quite what they had in mind. But before Maroni could do anything about it, the Batman locked me up in here."

Harley stared at Crane, feeling both pity and intrigue. "So you ripped off the mob," she summarized. "What do you mean he brought you into the fold?"

"Administratively," he explained with an evasive shrug. "They are currently having money laundering problems, so they set me up with a remarkably disturbing individual who runs a club uptown called the Iceberg Lounge."

"So Maroni is a drug dealer?" Harley asked, and Crane laughed bitterly.

"The mob control anything illegal that can make them money, and then they launder the money," he said bitterly. "Maroni made it especially efficient under his... modernized version of Falcone's crime family. I never dealt with him directly, just his desperate Russian lackeys."

"Wow," Harley folded her arms and sat back in her chair. "You were busy before you got locked up."

Crane scowled at her. "Have there been any further reports about my fear toxin or the Batman?"

"No," Harley pursed her lips, trying to think what she could give Crane in return for his information. It helped paint a broader picture of Gotham, one which she was aware of but didn't know. "I'll call Gordon," she offered. "To find out what they're planning to do with it. Maybe... maybe I can convince him to give it to us for testing."

"You'd do that?" Crane asked her quietly, his mouth puckering.

"Of course," Harley nodded. There was zero chance the MCU would hand it over to Arkham, but she could still call Gordon and ask. What did she have to lose? "You can trust me, Jonathan," she added as she stood up. "And if you think of how Elliot and the Maroni may be connected... well, let me know."

* * *

Harley bought herself a decent bottle of wine and spent the rest of the night on her couch reading through Harvey Dent's investigation into the Falcone Crime Family and Salvatore Maroni. She didn't understand all of the legal parlances and frequently had to google phrases to understand what the lawyers were getting at, but the results were a laundry list of crimes by Maroni and his "Lieutenants." Homicide, drugs, racketeering, bribery, coercion, money laundering, embezzlement, identity theft, fraud, illegal gambling, smuggling, counterfeiting, fencing, prostitution, kidnapping, arms trafficking, assassination.

But there were just enough holes in the investigation - and Dent's filings blatantly indicated this was due to corruption at the GCPD and City Hall itself - that made it hard to prosecute anyone named in the investigation without getting new legislation passed.

Hence, the Dent Act.

The legal jargon painted a picture of a ruthless Italian mafia but didn't go so far as to explain how it fits into Gotham society, for that Harley turned to Dent's campaign speeches. He was passionate, riveting, and watching him speak about cleaning up Gotham, Harley  _believed_  in Harvey Dent. No wonder people were so horrified the Batman killed him.

But that... that didn't make much sense either. All of the evidence available suggested that the Batman was a benevolent vigilante just trying to help. And he  _did_  help. Dent was on the record saying he trusted the Batman to save his ass, and the Batman  _saved_  Harvey Dent from the Joker.

So why the hell did the Batman kill Dent?

Harley went to bed mulling it over and continued to think about it when she woke up to the stupid birds the next morning. By the time she was out of the shower, she'd come up with a handful of wild theories about Dent working for Maroni, the Batman working for rebellious factions of the mob, or one of them having a full mental breakdown. All of it was fantastical speculation, but at least it distracted Harley from being pissed off, depressed and afraid.

She wondered if there was any cover she could give herself to ask Gordon about Dent and the Batman. He was the man to ask.

Harley stopped to look at herself in the mirror on the way out the door, pursing her lips as she considered her pale reflection. On an impulse, she dug out Dana's tube of lipstick, which had ended up in her bag after their night out, and applied a thin coat. She pressed her lips together, blotting the color, then smiled at herself.

When she arrived at Arkham there were no media waiting for her - and no stories about her or Arkham in that day's paper - but when she sat down at her desk, the concept of work felt... daunting. She sighed, knowing there was no other choice, and began to make her way through the hundreds of emails that had accumulated over the past few days.

Then sometime around mid-morning Walsh knocked on her door, striding in before she could invite him.

"Quinzel," Walsh nodded at her, looking very pleased with himself. "I have news."

Harley's lips pursed unhappily as she sat back in her chair to fix Walsh with look loaded with disdain. "What might that be?"

Walsh peered down his nose at her, his disdain matching hers. "You look nice today," he told her stiffly, perhaps in an effort at reconciliation. "New lipstick?"

"What do you want, Murphy?" Harley rolled her eyes.

"Oh, stop pouting," Walsh scoffed. "I've been dealing with the board too. Anyway, I've fixed  _everything_  for us."

"What?" Harley frowned, sitting up straighter

"Jacob Kane runs the publishing arm of the Kane Company, and they're dying for a best seller," Walsh explained, smugly gripping the lapels of his lab coat as he failed to smother a grin. "I showed him how badly Gotham wants to know more about the Joker and of course they've gone for it. The first book about the Joker? It's going to be a bestseller! No question about it! So, now that he's out of solitary you can begin interviewing him again."

Harley could only stare at Walsh, stunned by how brazen he was capable of being. Not just that, but she had already accepted she wouldn't get a chance to see the Joker again - which she'd told herself was  _just_ _fine_  by her - and now he was being dangled in front of her again, like forbidden fruit

Why the  _hell_ did he feel like forbidden fruit?

"Why don't  _you_  interview him for your book," she snapped, more defensively than was necessary.

"Don't pretend you haven't, you know," Walsh wiggled his fingers at her and wrinkled his nose. "Made some kind of a  _connection_  with him. You understand him, Quinzel! You're the one who can get the information out of him, I'm sure of it. It'll be both our names on the book. Just think of it!"

She tried to think of it, but her imagination was fundamentally repelled by the concept of writing a pop psychology book about the Joker. Psychopath porn for the masses who wanted to hear just how evil and crazy he was.

"Oh please, Quinzel," Walsh sneered. "Stop looking at me like that. You test drugs for depressed housewives on the criminally insane all day. You're not exactly a bastion of morality."

"You blamed me for him maiming Burrows," Harley seethed, trying to keep her voice low so she wouldn't _scream_  at Walsh. "To the board and all of Gotham. They think I'm too incompetent to be in the same room with him!"

Walsh waved her off like she was overreacting. "They'll forget once we show them he's nothing more than a psychopath and that they're safe." He grinned and mimed chucking her under the chin. "Come on, Quinzel! I know you love the game!"

Conflicted and a little overwhelmed, Harley could only shake her head and deflate back into her chair. She knew she should say no or at least  _I'll think about it_ , but...

"When do we start?" She asked shortly.

"Today. He'll be back in D Wing by this afternoon." Walsh headed for the door but stopped short before leaving, raising a finger in the air. "Think what else you can find out about Batman. Now that he's back, that's where the real money is!"

Harley watched Walsh leave, unsure how to feel. The week had been a rollercoaster, and she was only just starting to feel like she'd gotten off it safely.

But now she would be speaking to the Joker.

And she had so many questions for him.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Harley was in the D Wing session room, waiting for the Joker and preparing to interview him for Walsh's book. There was a sense of urgency because any day now, the city council could pass the Dent Act, and that could be the end of the Joker's residence at Arkham. Harley felt nothing but contempt for Walsh and his book but saying 'no' hadn't felt possible. In part because she knew Walsh would bully her into it eventually, but more so because she didn't  _want_ to say 'no.'

The way the Joker moved, the way he talked, the way he thought, the way he looked at her... he was just so  _fascinating._

Harley smoothed her hand over the blank page in her notebook. She'd written the date at the top but otherwise hadn't made a single note to direct her line of questioning. Her shoulders had been tense all day, hunched up around her ears to resist the nerves skating up and down her spine. It wasn't because of fear or reluctance or anxiety or anything to indicate she didn't want to be in that session room waiting for him. It was  _anticipation_  that had her tied up in knots. But anticipation wasn't always bad; it could be seductive too. This felt alarmingly like the latter.

The session room door buzzed loudly as the steel poles slammed back, and the door swung open. Harley sat up straight and tried to keep her expression passive as three orderlies frogmarched the Joker into the room, one on each arm and one behind him, pointing a rifle at his back.

The signs of retribution she'd anticipated were not as bad as expected. One eye was still blackened, faded to a yellow-green beneath the lid, and there was a mostly healed cut on his cheekbone. His bottom lip was freshly busted and bleeding; a reminder to behave himself, she guessed. His hair was clean and tucked behind his ears like he'd recently been treated to a shower, but most notable was the stubble that had grown over his week in solitary. It made his cheekbones stand out, and his jaw look sharper, and despite the orange jumpsuit and the scars, Harley thought he could have passed for any normal man suffering a bad hangover after a bar fight.

He offered her a charming little smile that made her stomach twist, but she returned it stiffly, watching as the orderlies shoved him into the chair and chained his hands to the table, then his feet to the floor.

Apparently, they'd decided straitjackets were a waste of time.

He waited for the orderlies to back out of the room before turning his gaze on Harley fully, his tongue poking out to prod his busted lip as he looked her over. She felt like he was cataloging her, and the anticipation she'd been feeling all day morphed into an impossible-to-ignore tension that nearly vibrated between them.

"Aren't  _you_  a sight for sore eyes," he drawled, waggling his eyebrows. "I didn't think I'd get to see you again."

"Why not?" Harley set the recorder on the table between them but didn't turn it on.

"Oh, ya know," his hands flapped outwards, his wrists trapped together by the handcuffs. "The whole..."

"The whole blinding and biting an orderly thing?" Harley filled in, raising one dubious eyebrow and earning herself a grin. "Why did you do that?"

He glanced down at the recorder, which she still had not turned on, and then back up at her. Harley shrugged, her face the picture of innocence, and he grinned again.

"Oh, I  _did_  miss you," he told her enthusiastically, and Harley felt a dangerous little shiver of pleasure at his words.

"Why did you attack him?" She pushed back.

He probed the inside of his cheek with his tongue, feeling the ridges of scar tissue as he thought over her question.

"Would you believe me if I said it was a uh...  _impulse_?" He said at length.

"No," Harley replied bluntly.

"I guess I'll have to get back to you then," he smirked, his chin dipping down, so he was looking up at her, and then his eyes drifted towards her bandaged hand. "Ooh... what happened  _there..._ "

"Maybe I'll tell you about it," she tapped on the tape recorder and shot him a wry smile. "Some other time."

He licked his lips as his attention swept down to her mouth. "That lipstick's nice," he said, keeping his voice low.

Harley pretended not to hear him even though her heart suddenly decided to start thudding frantically against her breastbone.

"Judge Surillo, Commissioner Loeb, and Harvey Dent," she said, folding her arms and focusing on keeping her voice steady. "All public servants. All inclined toward stamping out corruption and prosecuting Salvatore Maroni. Coincidence?"

He hummed, hunkering forward onto his elbows, an intrigued glint in his dark eyes. "Someone's been doin' their  _homework._ "

"It's interesting that you targeted the same people the Mob might want dead," she pointed out, feeling emboldened.

"Well,  _sure_ ," he agreed keenly. "If someone were paying you over half a billion dollars to kill the Batman you'd probably use their  _enemies_  to get the job done."

"Over half a  _billion_  dollars?" Harley's eyes widened, trying to comprehend the figure.

"Gordon and Dent had their  _balls_  in a vice thanks to a little help from the  _Batman,_ " the Joker explained crisply. "They had no choice... but to turn to me."

"I see," Harley nodded slowly, understanding for the first time how the mob and Maroni fit into the Joker equation. But her interest in Maroni was yesterday's news. Now she was much more interested in something else. "Why do you think the Batman killed Harvey Dent?"

His mouth twitched from a self-satisfied smirk into a wide grin that made his eyes crinkle up at the corners, then just as quickly it disappeared back into smugness again. The briefest glimpse of a genuine smile. He licked his lips as he stared at her across the table.

"You know what, doc, I  _really_  don't know why he would... Do you? Doesn't it seem a little...  _out of character_?"

"Yes," Harley nodded in agreement, glad she'd spent an excessive amount of time reading up the night before. "It doesn't make sense. The Batman  _saves_  people, that's his job. He helped the cops shut down the mob."

"Ah, ta, ta. No...  _almost_  shut down the mob," he corrected. "Maroni's still out there _raking_  in the dough even if things are a little...  _dicey_  for him right now. There's always room for the mafia in a town as corrupt as Gotham. They'll be out there right now, fighting each other like _rats..._  fighting to survive. Fighting to be  _king._ "

Harley fingered the collar of her blouse, thinking this over, then lifted her eyes to his and was unsurprised to find him staring openly at her, his expression intent.

"What was your... endgame," she said slowly, thinking about both R'as al Ghul. "What do you want to see happen to Gotham? Did you want to see it destroyed?"

"Look, I'm just here to ah...  _spice_  things up," he said, gesturing performatively with his limited mobility. "Stir the pot, ya know?  _I_  don't know what the 'endgame' is. But dontcha think Gotham has been a too... mmmm...  _acquiescent_  of the status quo?  _Letting_  these  _people_  run ramshod over them and their families?"

Harley pursed her lips, thinking that quote would be perfectly framed in Walsh's book by analysis that the Joker's worldview was an excuse to justify his desire for violence.

The problem was, he was also right. About Gotham. About people. She had noticed it more this past week than ever before, maybe because being in his orbit meant people like Walsh and Vicki Vale and Kane were more likely to show just how ruthless and cruel they could be. And now she was sympathizing with a psychopath's world view.

"Then why would you want to kill Harvey Dent," she tried to formulate another book question, even if it wasn't what she wanted to ask. "He was... stirring the pot; he was just doing it _legally_  without hurting anyone."

"Cause the world isn't a nice place where people don't get hurt," the Joker replied quickly, his lip curling. "That kinda happy bunny change doesn't _last_. "

Harley turned off the tape recorder and met his eye evenly, her mouth grim.

"Were you stirring the pot when you attacked Burrows?" She asked him quietly, realizing everything that had happened over of the past week could be traced back to that singular event. "Stirring the pot for me?"

He stared at her across the table, not a smirk in sight, and then he licked his lips. "There are all  _kinds_  of consequences to one little action, Harl," he said evasively.

"Are you trying to manipulate me into doing something for you?" Harley demanded.

He was silent again, looking almost hesitant like he was holding back from saying something, which seemed incredibly out of character.

But his character was only proving to be more and more complexly layered.

"I'm gonna enlighten you on something, Harley," he said, narrowing his eyes at her across the table. "Ya see... the Batman didn't murder Harvey Dent. That's a flat out  _lie._ "

Harley stared at him, unable to tell if he was speaking rhetorically.

"Before he died, Harvey went a little...  _crazy,"_ he quirked his eyebrows at her meaningfully. "He killed some people who might have deserved it. In the end, he wasn't this  _White Knight_  everyone thought. And the Batman in his misguided... _heroic_ way, he took the blame so Gotham would continue to believe this _lie_ about Harvey being good and noble when the truth is, even the best of us can be brought down to the gutter. That's who we _are_."

Harley sat quietly, listening intently as he spoke, trying to absorb what he was saying with what she knew and feeling a little daunted that she was now involved in something much, much bigger than herself.

"How could you possibly know that?" She asked quietly.

"Daww, well," the Joker shrugged modestly. "Dent was ruthless in his own  _fair-minded_  way. He believed in justice and fairness... so I just pointed out that chaos is fair, in a world where fairness does not otherwise exist. He was already there on the precipice; he just needed that little...  _push_ to see the truth."

A  _push._

* * *

**A/N: Poor Harley. She had such a rough week.**

**Next: Harley and the Joker get to know each other, and Harley makes some _interesting_  choices.**

**Note: I see a kinda Brie Larson type as Harley, in case anyone's interested.**

**Please review!**


	4. Chapter 4

The Harlequin

4.

* * *

The question  _'Are you giving me a little push,'_  was on the tip of Harley's tongue, but before she could ask it, the session room's buzzer wailed, and the door slammed open, and three guards stomped back in to collect the Joker.

"We aren't done yet," Harley snapped irritably, making the Joker chuckle under his breath.

"Sorry, Dr Quinzel," one of the orderlies said. "If you want more than twenty minutes with him, you gotta take it up with Dr Walsh."

Harley pursed her lips and watched them unchain the Joker from the table and the floor before marching him out of the room. Just before he was forced into the hall, he threw her one last look over his shoulder and Harley returned it coldly. When he was gone, she rolled her shoulders back, trying to collect her thoughts as she went over the past week's events and the consequences of Burrows being attacked.

She returned to her office and stayed there until midnight, listening back to the three sessions she'd recorded and trying to find hints of suggestion until she could nearly recite the tapes by heart. Suggestion of  _what_  was the real question. What could he possibly be pushing her toward? Did he want to see her in the gutter like Dent? The week had been an emotional rollercoaster of dissatisfaction and frustration with her life, all of it apparently stemming from events following Burrows' attack.

But could Harley really claim she had been happy with her life right up until the events of the past week?

And wasn't she falling into the same trap she disdained so many others of falling into - believing his propaganda that he was an evil genius capable of superhuman feats?

She delved into research next. There were reams of text about psychopaths using charm, flattery, and glibness to control and manipulate their victims. They might use their deceptive charms to control a partner, or emotionally blackmail colleagues, or trick a victim into going down a dark alley with them. If they were incarcerated, their powers were limited to getting things to keep them entertained, like better food or porn... But there was nothing about manipulating a person into becoming a serial killer by proxy like the Joker claimed he had done to Dent.

But there was a big difference between Harley and Dent. Dent had started as a warrior for good and justice, but he was shown how cruel the world was, and that destruction of his identity made him vulnerable. Harley already knew people were inherently ruthless without the checks and balances of society, and that society itself was creatively cruel in its own way. The world was a brutally unfair place, and no amount of mystical morality or chaos would change that.

In the end, Harley came to the conclusion that all that mattered was that she did not act on any thoughts or feelings that may arise from their conversations.

All she had to do was keep her actions in check.  _Not_   _act impulsively._

There would be a new DA within three months, and then the Joker would be moved elsewhere.

She could make it for three months.

* * *

Every day for the four weeks that followed, Harley sat across from the Joker for one hour, attempting to peel back those complex layers and understand what made him tick. Gradually, her motivation morphed from understanding him to getting to know him, and she wasn't at all surprised to find she liked him. Not just because psychopaths are experts at making themselves likable when it suits them, but because he was actually pretty good company.

He was frank with her whether the recorder was on or off. They'd come to a silent agreement that 'off' just meant Harley could be more open. Sometimes she'd say something that might be construed as controversial, and the Joker would look between her and the recorder knowingly, and Harley would shrug helplessly. But still, on and off the record, he wasn't playing games, and he wasn't making her fight to get her answers.

Like he was enjoying himself too.

Maybe it was a con, getting her to like him, but the only long term payoffs Harley could see for him were: A. Keeping himself entertained and engaged, so he didn't die of boredom. Or B. He was grooming her to break him out. And there was  _no_  way that would happen.

Realizing this made her early fear he would manipulate her into becoming a serial killer like Harvey Dent seem irrational. The Joker had taken advantage of Dent in his grief - grief the Joker created by murdering Rachel Dawes - and in Dent, he found an ideal puppet to spread his message.

He had no such purpose for Harley. He just enjoyed talking to her so he wouldn't die of boredom.

Harley gathered content for Walsh's book, but he was too preoccupied meeting with the PR firm to notice, let alone have a real discussion about this theoretical book. He had also stopped listening to her sessions, under the impression that Harley was a good little worker who would do as she was told.

It was like Walsh didn't know her at all.

Harley played the sessions by ear, and they quickly settled into a comfortable pattern of philosophical discussions and debates. Good and evil. Corruption and human nature. Survival, and death. War and power. After a few tense starts, Harley started to relax around him. He wasn't so jarring once you got used to the sing-song cadence of his speech and the strange movement in his body. When the Joker was excited, he was continually moving; his eyes rolling, lips smacking, shoulders jerking, fingers splaying and pointing and wiggling. Other times he would be completely still when he was thinking hard or listening intently.

She  _might_  have even said they were becoming friends.

On her days off, Harley went to work. Not only did she not want to skip a day with the Joker when they only had two months before Gotham elected a new DA, but she had Elliot Pharmaceutical breathing down her neck to deliver her assessment on a drug they wanted to take to market. They needed clinical approval by the end of the year, and there were  _millions_  of dollars riding on their timeline. Harley spent the morning and afternoon collating data, dreading the report she would need to write telling Elliot they had a dud on their hands - then  _finally_  it was time for her session with the Joker.

They talked about torture for a full hour. He was lounging in his chair like he was relaxing at the beach even with his hands cuffed to the table. Harley had her elbow propped up on the table, her cheek resting in her palm as they talked.

"Ya know, it's a common misconception of the uh, torture  _profession_  that torture won't get you answers," he explained casually, like he was pointing out a historical inaccuracy in a film.

"But if you're flaying someone's skin off their face, they'll tell you anything to make you stop," Harley pointed out. "There's plenty of evidence it doesn't work."

"Uh  _yeah,_  that's why it's all about being good at your job," he shot back with no small amount of pride. "You gotta know who to flay and whose infant son to _steal._  There's a  _sweet spot_ between the two."

"Surely emotional pain is the more logical choice," Harley mused. "You can negotiate with someone who isn't already half-dead."

" _Sure,"_ He agreed slyly, prodding the scar tissue inside his mouth with his tongue. "Point an emotionally compromised person toward a  _rational_  decision to get out of their situation and uh..."

"They do whatever you tell them to," Harley supplied thoughtfully, then pressed her lips together, thinking about his miscalculation on the ferries. "Unless..."

He sent her a withering look that was more than a little intimidating. He knew what she was thinking. They'd gone over the ferries a thousand times, and it always made him twitchy. He'd failed to prove his world view in a fiery ball of death on Gotham Harbour, and it was one of the few things that pissed him off. But Harley hadn't been afraid of the Joker for a while now, chained up and at her disposal as he was. She could deal with  _twitchy._

She lifted her cheek off her palm, smirking. "Unless you're telling them to do something that fundamentally goes against their perceived moral code and requires them to double down on said moral code."

"Nooo, no no no, noooo," he disagreed, shaking his head and drumming his fingers on the tabletop.

Harley watched his hands move. They were big hands, the knuckles vaguely scarred but not overly so like some thugs she'd treated. He had long fingers, and the orderlies had cut his nails too short so he wouldn't scratch or...  _remove eyeballs._  She wondered if he'd bled when they cut them. She wondered if he snarled like an animal or played the helpless wounded victim.

"The self-sacrificing types are...  _misguided_ ," he continued "Society, humanity, these  _myths_  have swallowed them whole. You were right," he narrowed his eyes and pointed at her, surprising her. "It's a question of  _guiding_  them..."

"So why can't you guide the Batman?" Harley asked, her tone lightly teasing. "Let me guess... it wouldn't be as fun?"

The left side of his mouth quirked up in a shark-like grin, but instead of answering, he leaned forward like he was trying to reach her across the table.

"Why d'you normally wear your hair all... nun-like," he asked, keeping his voice low as his eyes drifted over her hair. She'd forgotten to tie it back that morning after getting out of the shower, and now he was drawing attention to it, she had to stop herself from self-consciously touching the gentle waves brushing the collar of her lab coat.

She lifted an amused eyebrow at his characterization. "Nun like? You mean, in a bun?"

" _Sure,"_  he shrugged halfheartedly, his gaze still on her hair instead of her face.

"It just... seems more professional," Harley said slowly, allowing her hand to creep up to twist a blonde lock around her finger while he watched her closely. "I just... forgot this morning..."

He lifted his eyes to meet hers, something intense and unknown glittering there, and Harley held his gaze as a pleased little shiver rolled across her back.

There were moments like these now and then when the session room suddenly became thick with tension that Harley might have described as...  _heady_. She didn't know what these moments meant, but occasionally one of them would say something that crossed the line from familiar to personal, and since they were both aware that he was a terrorist and she was his doctor, crossing that line - however innocently - felt inappropriate.

Except Harley knew the Joker didn't recognize inappropriate as something that mattered. He just knew _intellectually_  that Harley should have cared about what was or was not improper. But here she was, fingering her hair as she stared back at him across the table, and she could see his eyes narrow curiously, like she was a puzzle he couldn't work out. He looked at her like that a lot.

Then suddenly the Joker fell back in his chair, reminding her of a lazy cat as he rolled his shoulders and sighed melodramatically.

"There's no point torturing the Batman," he started, gearing up for a rant. Like that heavy moment had never happened. Like it was all her imagination.

* * *

Another day passed. They talked about God, a topic that always riled Harley up. It was such an absurd concept in her mind, so utterly  _irrational_. The memory of being dragged to Jesus camp by social workers as a pre-teen didn't improve her opinion.

The Joker listened to her argument patiently, nodding, and humming his agreement. He replied with a diatribe about how at least  _God_  had interesting stories - Cain and Abel, the crucifixion. People today only really worshipped wealth and  _stuff_.

Harley agreed with him, but she still thought religion was a waste of time.

His reply made her nearly sob with laughter, elbows on knees, gasping for breath laughter.

"Well _, duh,"_ was all he'd said to set her off.

That day she left the session room feeling so over-excited she had to press her tongue to the roof of her mouth to keep from giggling on the way back to her office.

She was just about to leave for the day when Walsh banged into her office to chew her out about how she'd not given him anything to leak to whet the public's appetite.

"You're getting your book, aren't you!" She snapped, standing behind her desk where she felt a little more powerful with Walsh scoffing and shaking his head impotently at her.

"Quinzel, don't pretend you aren't getting anything out of this either!"

She hesitated, her fingers itching to grab the opal paperweight resting atop a file of data for Elliot, and hurl it at his head. Would it knock him off his feet? Leave an ugly bruise, or make him  _bleed?_

"Get me something I can give GCN or the Gazette - I want headlines, Quinzel! Something that will get Mike Engel hounding us for an interview!"

Harley ran a hand over her face, her fingertips trembling against her brow.

"Murphy," she said steadily, using Walsh's first name to let him know she was serious. "I'm not going to  _lead_  these interviews with him so that you can get a juicy story. And we shouldn't be leaking this material. It makes the asylum look  _awful..._  And! What will the board say? Did you even think - !"

Walsh cut her off with a stiff swipe of his arm. "Quinzel - You will do as you're told, alright? I don't want to hear about your  _feelings."_  His face wrinkled, disgusted by her  _female_  emotions, then he slapped both hands down on her desk and leaned in close. "Do as you're told! OK? OK?  _NO_ more questions!"

Harley was seething - literally panting through clenched teeth - as Walsh stormed out of her office and slammed the door behind him.

She reached for the opal paperweight and hurled it across the room. It slammed against the wall and shattered into a thousand shards of brown glass. Harley kicked her chair bitterly, making it spin away, then flung an arm across her desk, so the papers, pens, and files crashed to the floor.

Self-righteous indignation and rage spiraled through her like a cyclone as she shucked her lab coat and snatched up her bag, then stomped through the halls of Arkham with her fingers clenched and her head down.

The crisp October air raised goosebumps on her arms as she rushed down the asylum's front steps and out the gate, but she didn't notice. Her paperweight fantasy was blossoming into a cinematic, detailed act of violence that required her full attention. A jagged hole in the center of Walsh's piggy face. His wire glasses snapping in half from the force of the blow. Blood and brains spurting backward in a stream like something from  _The Exorcist._

Before getting on the train, she bought a bottle of vodka from a bodega. The shop keeper sent her a nervous look as she handed over the cash and she glared back, daring the old man to say something. He didn't.

She took the stairs to her apartment so she wouldn't have to face with any of her awful Midtown neighbors. They would look at her like the shop keeper, but with that extra layer of condescension, only the successful and wealthy were capable of.

Harley hated them all.

Sequestered in her apartment, a place that had never really been her own, a space she only used for sleep and nourishment, Harley kicked off her shoes and threw herself down on the couch. She spun the cap off the vodka and raised it to her lips, swallowing two mouthfuls then flopping backward, relishing the burn as it raced down her tongue to her intestines.

She laid there for a long time, fingering the drab couch cushions and swigging Smirnoff, well on her way to being drunk even though it did nothing to blot out her unhappiness. She wasn't just pissed at Walsh for trying to control her or frustrated about the fact that every day was so vastly disappointing from the last. Not only that years of hard work and self-control to get her where she was now seemed like a massive waste of time. Not to mention this discontent became exponentially worse with the Joker's arrival at Arkham, and  _Oh God_ , she wouldn't be able to look herself in the mirror if this was all because he knew how to push her buttons.

What she was theoretically being pushed toward, she still didn't know. She didn't understand why she was so unhappy with the life she had built for herself. She should have been happy, but she couldn't fathom continuing it for another sixty years. How could she change now? What the hell else would she do after all this time and all this work?

_You can never give this life up_ , she thought miserably,  _no matter how badly you want something more._

Or just something  _different_

And that thought alone made her feel like she was being ripped right down the middle, sawn in half with a dull knife. Holding onto her life by her fingernails while her need for something  _more_  ripped her away, like being sucked out of an airplane. It was all-consuming.

The bottled was empty now, and her head was spinning but she wasn't numb enough to stop circling the drain. She rolled off the couch and climbed unsteadily to her feet, a tormented whine pushing past her lips as she staggered into the kitchen. There was an old bottle of limoncello in the freezer - anything would do now - and she haphazardly scooped out the contents of the freezer as she hunted for the bottle.

Even with her sloppy, halting movements, she managed to unscrew the cap and bring the bottle to her mouth, gulping down the sticky sweet liquid that still seared her insides like she wanted it to. She had to stop to catch her breath and wipe her mouth, and the sheer wretchedness of it all made her so damn furious that she shrieked through her teeth, unable and unwilling to keep it inside any longer.

She smashed the bottle against the counter, sending glass and lemon-scented apéritif spraying down the cupboards and across the floor. Harley sucked in a shuddering breath then lobbed the remnants of the bottle at the wall where it exploded in a shower of glass.

The destruction was satisfying, and she threw herself bodily against the kitchen sink, grabbing the few glasses and plates there and flinging them over her shoulder, each ear-splitting crash helping her separate herself from this pathetic hopelessness she'd allowed herself to sink into.

She ripped mugs, bowls, and wine glasses out of the cupboards and threw them blindly across the room, then picked up a knife from the sink and stabbed it into the wall where it stuck.

Then she screamed again, but this time, it was an angry sound, more like a howl. Her hands flew up to pull at her hair as her face crumpled in frustration, desperate for some form of relief.

She needed relief. She needed something more. There  _had_  to be something different for her.

* * *

Crowne Square was lined with sapling trees still tethered by stakes and lamp posts that filled the square with orange light. Bruce stayed in the shadows, just outside the reach of the lamps as he waited for Dr Quinzel, gazing up at the half-constructed high rise the Crowne Group had given up on completing some months earlier. They claimed construction had to be shut down because of environmental concerns. Bruce had no reason not to believe that, though he suspected Bertie Crowne's relationship with the mob might have had more to do with the stalled work than the EPA.

At the other end of the square was the completed twin to the unfinished build — a fifteen-story  _luxury_  complex aimed at Midtown workers who wanted to buy in an up-and-coming area. The first of many planned builds in the regeneration of Gotham's East Side. Bruce had taken two lunches with Bertie to discuss the project, and he actually got _excited_  about the idea of regenerating the East Side and wanted to help. But he was pitched a soulless, money-driven scheme for _gentrification,_ not regeneration, without a single thought for the poverty-stricken residents of the area. No social services, no affordable housing. Just monstrous builds that would block out the sun and drive more into homelessness as their land was bought right out from under them.

In the end, the Crowne Group hadn't been able to sell enough condos. The build was a year completed and only a third full. People just weren't interested in leaving their wealthy nests.

Bruce's attention was drawn to a lone figure heading up the path toward the square, and as they moved closer, he recognized them as Dr Quinzel, the orange light from the lamps making her blonde hair glow against the darkness. He watched from the shadows as she stomped unhappily through the square to the entrance of her building, her head down, her shoulders hunched, and a bottle in a brown bag clenched in her fist.

Watching her, Bruce felt a profound sense of unease hit him right in the gut. She was distressed, angry. Maybe she'd had a bad day at work - Arkham was bound to provide plenty of those - but what if it was something to do with the Joker?

Alfred said he was obsessed, that he needed to accept the Joker was behind bars and focus on the mob. Without Harvey to prosecute and Gordon crippled by a corrupt police force, Bruce was the only thing keeping Maroni in check.

But how could he forget the Joker when there were real  _human_  connections to him moving in and out of Arkham on a daily basis? After what he'd turned Harvey into? A monster willing to kill children?

Bruce needed to meet her, speak to her, find out what the Joker was doing inside Arkham. The media reported that Dr Quinzel had been removed from his case after the orderly's mutilation, but Bruce had his own source inside Arkham who claimed she was still meeting with the Joker  _alone._  Not even a guard in the room to protect her. That screamed of either arrogance or naivete, or even something more nefarious. Bruce needed to know why. He needed to be prepared. For what, he didn't know yet, but that profound unease with the Joker incarcerated in a historically flawed institution made his concerns with the mob seem trivial.

Dr Quinzel had been in her apartment for close to 45 minutes, but she hadn't turned on a single light on. It was possible she'd gone straight to bed: it was late, and she'd been visibly upset. The alternative was that she was up there drinking whatever had been in that brown bag. Alone and in the dark. It painted a picture of an unstable woman who shouldn't be allowed in the same room as the Joker. Another Harvey Dent waiting to happen.

But Bruce knew he wasn't giving her enough credit and he could even imagine Rachel scolding him for jumping to the conclusion that Dr Quinzel couldn't handle herself because she was a  _woman_  prone to _emotions_. Harleen Quinzel was an academic, young but professional and respected by her peers, a published scholar with an outstanding track record. If being in the same room with the Joker every day pushed her to have a few glasses of wine, who could blame her? Gordon kept a bottle of scotch in his desk, and Alfred was known to put away a few brandies when the time called for it.

Bruce needed to talk to her, to know her better before coming to a conclusion. Not tonight, but soon.

Her window opened then, a pale hand striking out into the darkness before disappearing back inside. She was awake.

Something white and fluffy was dragged out the window on a breeze and began to drift downward. It looked like a cloud, and Bruce watched uneasily as it settled into the branches of a sapling where he could see it more clearly. It was stuffing, from a couch or a pillow, or maybe a toy.

What it meant, he didn't know. But his instincts told him it wasn't good.

* * *

Harley had not been this hungover since undergrad.

After growing up the way she had, surrounded by sad stories in foster care and keeping her head down so she could get the grades that would get her  _out_  of there, being a Freshman at Gotham University with a full ride scholarship had been mind-numbingly freeing.

She made friends with the girls in her dormitory and embraced the college girl uniform of bandage dresses and slasher heels, along with the college tradition of binge drinking and puking in hedges outside frat houses. Her grades were still good, not only so she would keep her scholarship, but because Harley had always felt compelled to succeed to the best of her abilities at everything she did. For the first time in her life, she could relax. She could unclench and enjoy herself.

In her Sophomore and Junior years, she lived with three girlfriends who were 'fun girls' who also took their studies seriously. Harley had a boyfriend who fit this mold too. He was planning on becoming a lawyer. Finally, she felt normal, or at least like she was succeeding in convincing the people around her that that was the case.

But things with the boyfriend went south after about a year. Harley couldn't give him what he needed emotionally, but she was reluctant to give him up because he was part of her fantasy of normalcy. So she pretended, and she hurt him, and one night in December in her Junior year there was a fight that ended in an incident.  _That_  incident, which only Joan knew about. And not even Joan knew what really happened. Harley was too dedicated to her future of normalcy to let anyone ever find out what she really did that night.

After that night, her roommates shied away from her like they were scared of her. They  _knew_  the boyfriend. They  _knew_  he wouldn't do that to himself. So Harley moved into a studio apartment. She isolated herself, and she studied, and she didn't indulge in anything that had the slightest chance of distracting her until her first week in grad school two years later. That's when she met Dana, who drank wine in limited amounts to keep her figure.

But even after a few glasses of Pinot Noir, Harley wouldn't allow herself to relax again.

Relax wasn't quite the right word. Unclench was more accurate.

So when she woke up with blood on her hands on her bathroom floor the morning after her argument with Walsh, it was with an increasingly dreadful sense of deja vu that she sat up and looked around at what she had done. Her loss of control was evident everywhere. The mirror over the sink was shattered, the tiles around her covered in shards of glass. The shower curtain and rail ripped right off the wall. Chaos.

She used the lip of the bathtub to pull herself to her feet, holding her bloodied hands to her chest as she wandered numbly out of the bathroom and down the hall.

The rest of the apartment was in a similar state. Anything made of glass: shattered; anything that could be pulled apart: destroyed; the couch cushions: carved open and emptied of their stuffing; the clothes in her closet: ripped out and flung around the bedroom.

Feeling numb and confused, Harley retrieved the first aid kit she kept under her bed and bandaged her hands. She tied the knots, so they looked like injuries from training - blisters from the parallel bars - instead of... whatever this was.

Her phone had just enough battery to inform her she had twenty minutes before her shift started, and without a mirror to check herself in she had to use the phone's camera to see that her skin was pale, her eyes hollow and her hair a tangled mess. There wasn't time to do anything aside from run a brush through her hair, and attempting to pull a new outfit from the chaos in her room was futile, so she pulled on her winter coat over the clothes she'd slept in and headed out the door.

In the elevator, she ignored the wary looks the drones sent her as they rode down to the lobby in silence — their morning ritual, which she was ruining with her sloppy presence.

Once at Arkham, Harley hurried to her office, ignoring the stares of the guard at the gate and the intern at reception and Rosa behind the nurse's station, all squinting at her curiously.

Her office felt like a sanctuary, her desk chair the most comfortable she'd ever sat in her whole life, the dim lighting a sweet relief from the brightness of reality, and the silence like a soothing hum.

In the hours that followed she tried to work on the Elliot casework, but with nausea rising in her throat and her head still spinning like a top she soon retreated to the old therapist's couch in the corner of her office. Just a cat nap, she told herself. Sleeping at work was bad, but vomiting at work was even worse. And what she had done the night before - the hysterical drunken fit of rage and self-pity - that was the worst of all. Thinking about it made her yearn for unconsciousness, where she wouldn't have to confront herself.

Yearning. It was a concept Harley was only recently familiar with. What it felt like to yearn, and even worse, yearning for something and not knowing what it was — just something else.

As she slipped off to sleep, Harley wondered if this yearning would slowly drive her insane.

* * *

When she woke to a knock on her office door. The clock on the wall told Harley she'd slept well into the afternoon, and when she opened the door, she found Fogerty on the other side, looking bewildered by the state of her.

"Uh..." He fumbled, not sure what the appropriate reaction was. "Dr Quinzel, we've been waiting for you with the Joker for almost 45 minutes. Do you want us to take him back to his cell or..."

"No, no!" Harley exclaimed in a rush. She spun around to grab the tape recorder off her desk before pushing past the orderly, straightening her lab coat and smoothing a hand through her tangled hair. "No, let's go. I'm ready."

Harley took a few deep breaths to clear her head as she and Fogerty stepped into one of the old elevators, her thoughts turning toward the Joker. Lately, she'd been happy to breeze into the session room without a plan, but after Walsh's reproval, the night before she would have to give him something to leak or he'd never get off her case.

Letting Walsh get under her skin that way had been weak, and Harley knew she needed to take control of the situation. She was the one with access to the Joker - she would be the one to control the flow of information between him and Gotham. If Walsh wanted something that would make the media sit up to attention, she could give them that. On her terms.

She swept past the orderlies outside the session room, tapping her key card against the plate beside the door. Anticipation swooped through her as the buzzer sounded, the locking bolts slammed back, and the door swung outwards.

The Joker's back was to her when she entered the room, his sandy-brown hair mussed and greasy except where it curled boyishly over the collar of the orange jumpsuit. As she lowered herself into the seat opposite him, Harley couldn't stop a secretive smile from forming on her lips, and when he cocked his head to the side curiously, her smile only grew.

"You... are  _up_  to something..." He observed once the cell's door had slammed shut and locked.

"Maybe," Harley replied evasively and set the tape recorder on the table between them without turning it on. "I have to tell you something."

He hummed, immediately intrigued, and shifted in his seat to get more comfortable. "This sounds like it's gonna be  _good._ "

"Walsh is writing a book about you," Harley told him, wondering if he'd be annoyed she didn't tell him sooner. "That's why I've been interviewing you. It's for a book."

"Aww," he sighed raspily, taking this information in stride. "And here I thought you just liked spending time with me."

"Oh, I do," Harley countered, smirking as she planted her elbows on the table and leaned in. "I  _really_  do," she promised.

He ran his tongue over his bottom lip thoughtfully, his mouth curving into a smirk to match hers, and Harley let the moment linger between them for a few long seconds, savoring it before she finally continued.

"Walsh leaked the story about how you attacked Burrows, and he wants to leak our sessions too." She raised one conspiring eyebrow at him. "But apparently we haven't been...  _exciting_  enough for him. He wants us to get Gotham excited about the book."

" _You_  mean  _scared_ ," the Joker countered, letting his head tip to the side as his eyes drifted over Harley's rumpled shirt and messy hair. "I can get ya excited too if that's what you  _really_  want," he added lazily.

Harley felt something decidedly  _excited_  skitter through her stomach and another one of those heady, tense moments passed between them. She did her best to ignore it, re-crossing her legs and fixing him with a steady look.

"I think scared ought to do it."

"Ya know, I did _not_  peg Piggy as the diabolical type," he admitted, rolling his shoulders back as he settled into his chair. He prodded the inside of his cheek with his tongue as his eyes dipped down to the tape recorder and he bobbed his head once. "Alright. Let's give the people what they want, doc."

It occurred to Harley then - alarmingly only for the first time - that what she was doing was beyond unethical. She was basically colluding with a terrorist by allowing him to pass a message on to the city so she could get the upper hand over her boss. Definitely unethical, absolutely a bad idea, but also...

Harley tapped the recorder on, and the Joker cleared his throat, then bent close to the small device, getting ready to broadcast. There was a stretch of silence, and then...

"You know what people in Gotham are  _really_  afraid of...?"

His voice was low and creeping, the promise of something terrifying to come, and Harley felt a shiver of suspense dance across the back of her neck.

_"Chaos_ ," he purred, his eyes rolling back in his head as he relished the word. "People  _fear_  what they don't understand. To them, it's a big, black, unknowable void... so they make choices to avoid knowing. They put their heads down and live the lives they're _assigned_. Follow the rules. Rich, poor, corrupt, in... _between_. They're told to be  _good_ , to be  _moral_. Even the _bad guys_  have a code which, of course, is...  _bullshit._

"And yet it was the good people, the  _normal_  people, who tried to kill Coleman Reece to save their hospital... They  _let go_  of their ideas of goodness, of their society - one which does _not_  care about any of them - and now that they've had a taste of what it means to be  _free_  of their masters... they won't go back.

"Ya see, the thing about chaos is it spreads, and this... was just the beginning. I unlocked the _cage_ , set these people _free_. And there's much... much more to come."

Harley could only stare at him, transfixed and also repelled by what he said. He was wooing Gotham's poor and powerless with a nihilistic form of freedom, warning all the rest that they should be scared this freedom was coming for them. It wasn't exactly what he usually presented - rich or poor; they were all fair game - but it was undoubtedly effective.

"Are you... planning something?" she asked quietly, forgetting they had plotted this recording together.

He chuckled under his breath. "Chaos doesn't  _plan_. It doesn't _scheme_. Everything happens by chance... even me." He lifted his eyebrows knowingly. " I'm not, uh...  _tethered_ to the morality that people cling to so desperately... And there  _will_  be others. Others who will make you question this world that your  _betters_  have constructed for you. In fact, I'd say we could use someone  _fresh_  right about now. Someone to  _mix it up_ , make things a little _dicey_ , upset the established order..."

"Someone just like you?"

He giggled gleefully, a wild sound she'd not heard him make before, as he waggled his eyebrows knowingly at her.

"Guess you'll just have to wait and see..."

Harley let the silence stretch on for a few seconds, imagining the hiss of the tape as Walsh played it back, then tapped the recorder off.

The Joker bent his head forward to rake his palms through his hair then sat back, tonguing his scars and radiating contentment as he quirked his eyebrows at her again.

"Did you mean all that?" Harley frowned. She crossed her arms flat on the table and pitched forward, so she was leaning toward him.

"I can see the  _headlines_  now," he growled, waving his hands and fluttering his fingers. Then he slumped a little and cocked one eyebrow at her. "Can _you_  see them, Harley?"

And she could. She was frightened, full of doubt but also strangely soothed, because what the Joker was promising was seductive even if it was terrible.

Every journalist and citizen in Gotham would want to pick these words apart.

"Thank you," she said at last.

He regarded her through sleepy eyes with an almost dreamy smile.

"No need to  _thank_  me,  _Harley_." He purred her name.

When their session was over, Harley ducked into a bathroom to splash cold water on her face, feeling flushed and overwhelmed. Back in her office, determination renewed, she typed out an introduction chapter for Walsh's book. The words came all too easily.

* * *

A few hours later, Harley was waiting outside the boardroom for Walsh to finish his meeting with the PR firm. It was nearing ten o'clock, so she had to wonder if this meeting was strictly on the books. Meeting in the boardroom drew some painfully obvious parallels to the direction Walsh was taking the asylum. PR meetings instead of board meetings. Leaks and tell-all books instead of academia and health care. It was just another version of how Crane ran the asylum. Instead of an obsession with fear and power, Walsh was obsessed with money and fame. She didn't know which was worse.

The PR people trickled out of the boardroom smiling and bluffing with Walsh on their heels. Harley shoved her hands in her coat pockets and pursed her lips as she waited for them to say their farewells.

"Ah, Quinzel," Walsh greeted her awkwardly, almost pityingly.

"Here," Harley shoved a USB stick into his hands. "This should help," she tacked on curtly, then turned away before he could respond. She was still in an unbearably good mood and knew he would cannibalize it if she gave him half a chance.

Outside it was dark, and there was a chill in the air now that they were halfway through October. The guard at the gate was bundled up in a scarf and mittens, different from the one who had let her in in the morning. She waved at him happily, and he offered a mittened wave in return as she passed beneath the arch with  _ARKHAM ASYLUM_  written in twisted steel.

A kid who couldn't have been older than sixteen tried to sell her weed as she walked to Elizabeth Arkham station, and she gave him a little smile but declined his offer. People who didn't live or work in the Narrows thought it was some dystopian urban hellscape, which wasn't quite the truth. People here suffered and survived (or didn't) just like they did everywhere else. The widespread madness in the wake of Crane's fear toxin hadn't done much to stabilize the community, but people got on with their lives once the fog had cleared. It was impressive, Harley thought, how hard they worked to survive even if it meant doing unsavory things to do so.

She swiped her metro card and climbed the steps to the platform, abandoned as it always was that late. The cracked sign showing train times informed her she had ten minutes before her train would arrive so she took a seat, folding her arms across her chest to ward off the chill. In the distance, the sound of a bitter argument carried on the wind, maybe from one of the public housing complexes along the side of the train tracks. Harley strained her ears to listen, hoping it wasn't the too-frequent argument of an angry husband and victim wife.

Heels clacking along the train platform, distracted her from her thoughts. She looked up to see a girl with long dark hair and a very short skirt walk past, heading for the bench at the other end of the platform. The sound of the argument resumed; definitely a husband and wife, she decided sadly.

The train arrived empty, only the girl from the platform boarding a few carriages down. Looking down the carriages as they moved was like a fun house, each twist and turn of the track making the impression more unsettling. Harley set her sights on an advertisement for penis enlargement over a bank of seats and wondered if Thomas and Martha Wayne ever envisioned penis enlargement as being a necessity to keep their train funded. Probably not.

The sound of heels clacking again drew Harley's attention. The girl from the train platform was striding through the carriage like it was a runway. She wore a garish pink denim jacket, and heeled booties that were pink too, with gold chains that clinked as she walked. She cracked her gum loudly and took a seat a few rows away, and Harley thought - not unkindly - that the girl must have gotten lost on her way to the set of a White Snake music video.

The train squealed as it took a sharp turn, and Harley allowed herself to wonder briefly what the state her apartment would be when she got home. Strangely, it didn't make her anxious, maybe because she hadn't even considered cleaning it up yet. Maybe she would move. Or claim she'd been robbed. Or perhaps she would just live with it as it was, forever existing in the hurricane of her mania.

The girl with the pink boots stood up and moved further down the train to sit across from Harley, distracting her from her thoughts. She glanced over at the girl a few times, making sure she wasn't imagining her sitting there, analyzing the graffiti on the wall behind Harley's head.

The girl studiously ignored Harley even as Harley stared openly at her, taking note of the silver piercings running up her ears, her dark hair falling in long waves over one shoulder, her big, anime-like green eyes and pink-glossed lips.

Paranoia could now be added to her ever-growing list of symptoms, Harley thought miserably as she wondered who the hell this girl was. She had noticed people noticing her in the days after her picture was shown on GCN Tonight, but that had largely subsided. Today had been full of people looking at her like she was insane - but those people knew her to be a calm and well-put-together person, and today she'd looked like she'd been dragged through a hedge backward. This was just a girl on the train who maybe didn't want to sit alone because it was late and they were in the Narrows. That made sense.

Then the girl looked at Harley and smiled a big, cheesy grin.

"Hi!" She chirped, rising and then plopping down on the seat beside Harley. She dropped her elbow on the armrest between them and leaned in, still grinning. "I'm Lucy."

Harley's eyes widened, not quite in shock but something  _near_  to it at this overly friendly intrusion. Strangers  _did not_  talk to each other in Gotham. The girl cracked her gum happily, and Harley narrowed her eyes.

"What do you want?" She demanded, a little hostilely.

"You're Harleen Quinzel, right? Dr Quinzel?" The girl, Lucy, asked cheerfully.

Harley pressed her lips together unhappily. "Yes. Who are you?"

"I'm Lucy," she repeated, winking this time.

"Okay," Harley spread her hands, growing impatient with the game. "What can I do for you,  _Lucy?_ "

Lucy's radioactive grin mellowed into something a little more natural. "I work for Mr Penguin," she informed Harley, coolly but still friendly. "Of the Iceberg Lounge. Have you heard of it?"

Harley's brow furrowed. She did have a vague, alcohol-smudged memory of Dana's friends talking about checking out the Iceberg Lounge on their night out Uptown. That idiot Georgie said it used to be a mob club.

Hadnt Crane mentioned it too?

Keeping her face neutral and her tone clipped, she said: "I've heard of it."

"Oh good," Lucy tossed her hair over her shoulder. "I'm so happy to hear we've even got a reputation in this neck of the woods."

"You haven't told me what you want," Harley reminded her. She was getting the impression that this girl pretended to be dumber than she was. And that meant there was  _gotcha_  coming.

"Mr Penguin wants to meet you," Lucy informed her breezily. "He wants to be your friend."

Harley laughed incredulously. "Someone called  _Mr Penguin..._  wants to be my _friend_?" She laughed again, feeling ridiculous.

Lucy only smiled politely. "That's right," she confirmed and got to her feet again. "You should come to see us sometime. We think you'd be interested in what we have to say."

Harley could think of nothing to say to this, so she just stared as Lucy gave her a quick wave then slipped off through the sliding doors when the train came to a full stop.

Alone and rocking back and forth with the momentum of the train, Harley's head fell back against the weathered seat, and she stared up at the ceiling.

"What the fuck," she muttered.

* * *

Around 5 AM, Harley's phone started to blow up. It was still dark outside, so she had to fish around for it, feeling for the vibrations. Ding!  _Vibrate_. Ding!  _Vibrate_. Ding!  _Vibrate_. She squinted at the screen, but before she could read one message, a new one came through. Ding!  _Vibrate_. Ding! Vibrate.

The first six texts were from reporters, asking for a quote about her latest session with the Joker leaking.

Shit, she  _really_  needed to change her number.

Walsh texted her a link to a Gotham Gazette story with a headline that read:  _JOKER STOKES FEAR FROM WITHIN THE WALLS OF ARKHAM._

Jesus, Walsh moved fast.

On her way into Arkham, she picked up a copy of the Gazette. She'd already read the story - which recounted a source from Arkham playing the reporter a tape of her session- but she liked the optics of having the physical paper too. Her picture hadn't appeared in the piece, so she didn't have to worry about people noticing her yet. That would inevitably come, and it was also inevitable that the tape itself would eventually make its way into the media's hands for the public to hear.

Harley was relying on Walsh to make sure that happened. It wasn't complete without the Joker's voice.

After exiting the station, she stopped at a bodega to buy a pay-as-you-go Sim card and swapped it out for the now-compromised one in her phone.

The air was crisp, and the sun was shining, and Harley was in control of her situation. She didn't even mind she had journalists and strange girls stalking her. She beamed at the guard when she walked through the gates of Arkham, and he gave her a sunny smile in return.

Walsh wasn't in his office yet, so Harley made small talk with his receptionist while she waited.

"You look nice today, Dr Quinzel" Lynette observed cheerfully as she settled in behind her desk. "Got a hot date tonight?"

Harley laughed and looked down at what she wore beneath her lab coat: her usual black slacks and leather loafers, but also a green silk blouse she'd found in the back of the closet. All of her normally neatly pressed white shirts were still in various states of disarray on her bedroom floor.

"Laundry day," she corrected, fingering the collar of the blouse.

"You must be so disappointed about the Gazette's article this morning," Lynette sighed, shaking her head. "I can't believe anyone here at Arkham would leak your tapes to the press like that. Or that the press would even run it! That Vicki Vale has some nerve."

"I guess," Harley agreed softly. She had been waiting, all morning, for the guilt to set in. Guilt over conspiring with the Joker and helping him leak his poison into the public consciousness. It was destructive and unethical, but she was struggling to care.

When Walsh showed up, he greeted Harley with more warmth than she had realized he was capable of.

"Ah, Quinzel! You're here early. Excellent, excellent," He ushered Harley into his office, babbling happily. "You've done brilliantly, Quinzel! The reporter from the Gazette couldn't believe it when I played her the tape. How  _on earth_  did you get him to pivot from that drab philosophical nonsense you two were drowning in, hmm? My God, it's almost frightening," he laughed heartily. "I wouldn't want to get on your bad side, Quinzel!"

He sat behind his desk and Harley perched on one of the armchairs facing it. "He didn't say anything so different from the usual," she protested, though she wasn't sure why. She should have been accepting the praise and asking Walsh for a raise. But it was true; there was nothing revealing in what the Joker had said. He'd just framed his ideas with a reasonable level of doubt, the kind that made people question themselves and their safety.

"Are you kidding?" Walsh folded his hands behind his head and smirked. "I had shivers! And not just because of that freakshow voice, you know, that does get to you, even on tape. No, no, he was...  _prophesying._  And good God, Quinzel! I want to hear more! Can you get more?!"

Harley laughed lightly and shrugged, that wicked gleam she'd seen in the Joker's eyes a potent reminder that he would be up for any mischief she posited to him.

"We need to talk about the book," she said instead, keeping her voice sober. "I've been working on an introduction."

Walsh hunkered forward and gestured for her to talk, nodding supportively here and there and generally playing along, but Harley sensed he wasn't listening to her. It drained some of her good mood, replacing it with the bitter resentment of knowing Walsh was using her to meet his own ends.  _Bastard._

She stood abruptly. "Anyway, let's catch up on this again soon. I have a session I need to get to."

"Anyone interesting?" Walsh called cheerfully as she crossed the office to leave.

Harley turned back and pretended to think for a moment. "Nope," she said with a small smile.

* * *

Harley did feel a  _little_  bad about Crane. She'd been avoiding him for weeks, pushing him off on Blakely, who she knew he despised on a personal level. Once he'd described Blakely's mind to her as grey gelatin not suitable for dissection.

The hallway of B Wing was empty when Harley swiped her ID card against the keypad to Crane's cell. She checked over both shoulders before entering, but there wasn't a person in sight. Fantastic security effort, she thought wryly.

Crane was sitting on his cot with his legs crossed, reading Freud's  _Studies on Hysteria_ again _._ One of his glasses' lenses was cracked, and he had a bruise on his cheek that had turned green and yellow with time. He was doing an impressive job of ignoring her as she pulled the cell door closed, waited for it to lock, then took a seat in the free chair beside the cot.

He marked his page and set his book aside, and when he turned to face her, he seemed to be having trouble hiding a scowl.

"Harleen," he bit out unhappily. "Fancy seeing you here."

Harley wasn't a coward. She hadn't been avoiding Crane because she didn't want to face him - she simply found his neediness  _extremely_  boring. But now she needed something.

"Hello, Jonathan," she smiled thinly. "How have you been?"

He laughed without humor, bitter and mocking, which was really the only version of a laugh Harley had ever heard from him. She could see him gearing up for a rant of some kind, probably to put her in her place but she didn't have time for that.

"I need to ask you about someone," she jumped in, trying unsuccessfully to get him to look her in the eye. "Someone called Penguin. From the Iceberg Lounge... does that mean anything to you, Jonathan?"

Crane scoffed indignantly then removed his glasses and ran a noticeably trembling hand over his face.

"Why are you asking me about the Iceberg Lounge?" He said into his palm, sounding tired.

"Indulge me." Harley frowned.

He shot her a withering look so potent it could have stripped paint off the wall.

"Penguin is a money launderer," he informed her coldly. "The Iceberg Lounge used to be Falcone's watering hole, a place people would go to meet. Then it passed to Maroni who turned it into a nightclub to launder money through. The mob still can't get their money since Dent took out all their main players, so they have to do it the old-fashioned way through their clubs. Penguin runs the Iceberg for Maroni."

Crane took a deep breath, as if preparing himself, then widened his eyes and pressed his lips together in a determined line. Harley could see he was trying for sincere, but it was just coming off as crazy. Before he could ask her for a favor in return, she jumped in again.

"Why would the Penguin want to talk to me?"

Crane's face twisted with exasperation _. "What?"_  He hissed like he wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly.

"A girl came up to me on the train last night," Harley explained. "She said she worked for Penguin and he wants to meet me." She frowned as she thought back to the girl with the bedazzled boots. "It was weird. What kind of guy is Penguin?"

"The  _weird_  kind," Crane deadpanned, and Harley couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled up in her throat.

"Look," he said gravely, and lowered his feet to the floor to face her fully. "I went to the Iceberg Lounge once to drop off my product, and Penguin was there. He's... eccentric. I watched him  _kill_  a man with an  _umbrella._  Do  _not_  go see him on your own, Harleen." His eyes narrowed, and he searched her face, trying to find an in, trying to find the reason she needed to hear to help him escape. "I know you, Harleen. Once you get an idea into your head, you have to see it through. I'll come with you to meet Penguin; at least then you won't be alone."

Harley sighed, a little disappointed in Crane. She stood and nearly reached out to ruffle his hair but thought better of it.

"Nice try," she told him with a wry smile. "And thanks for the tip."

Crane scrambled off the bed to stand so they were nose to nose, and Harley was briefly surprised that she'd forgotten he was only an inch or so taller than her. In all the time they'd spent sitting across from each other, he projected himself as being much larger than he was. In reality, Crane was small and scrawny, scarecrow-like. But even if she didn't find him physically intimidating, there was palpable desperation in his eyes. Pale blue, striking, and very,  _very_  desperate. And desperate men were capable of terrible things.

She shook her head and turned to leave.

"Wait," he pleaded, following her across the cell. "Harleen, wait!"

Harley swept her ID card over the keypad embedded in the stone wall beside the cell door. A and B Wing had keypads inside the cells, a sign of how much misguided faith the board had in the incompetence of their patients. The keypad in Crane's cell was covered in scratches and dried blood. He'd been trying to pry it off.

She turned to look at him as the cell's buzzer sounded and the steel bolts slid back from the wall to unlock the door. His hands were balled up into fists, and he was visibly shaking. For a moment, she was sure he would attack her and was nearly certain he was imagining wrapping his hands around her neck.

But he wouldn't have been able to take her, and they both knew it. Harley was strong and quick from years of training, and it was obvious in how she carried herself. Crane had spent the last two months sitting on his ass or pacing, living off a diet of lentil slop and grey meat.

"I'm sorry, Jonathan," she told him solemnly as she stepped out of the cell and into the hallway.

"Harleen...!"

She closed the door in his face and listened to the bolts slam back into place as he shouted her name, louder and louder.

Aside from Crane's screaming, the corridor of B Wing was still completely silent. Harley glanced left and then right down the drafty halls, and imagined what it would take. She could let her ID card fall out of her pocket where he could find it or even leave the cell door ajar so it wouldn't lock. Crane could take it from there.

She sighed, still feeling a little guilty but no more interested in freeing Crane than she had been before. As she walked back to her office and his shouts grew quieter, Harley's mind drifted from him to the girl from the train - a money launderer's assistant. An employee of a mob club Uptown where people were killed with umbrellas.

It was too crazy, even by Gotham standards.

* * *

GCN was a local news station crewed by attractive anchors and owned by the Kane Family, but Jim the Intern believed they reported  _real_  news. It was his first job out of Gotham University (BA in Investigative Journalism), and though he hadn't expected to be in the field his first week, he also hadn't expected that he'd be wearing an anthrax mask while he opened envelopes all day, separating the tips from the hoaxes.

A majority of the tips came in digitally now and were easy to filter, but some still came in the mail. They were mostly paranoid nonsense, but it was  _essential_  that Jim check each one. Just in case.

The real tips came from sources GCN's reporters had cultivated over the years. Jim often fantasized about one day having his very own Deep Throat - a source who knew it was their civic duty to get information to the people, even if their career or life was on the line doing it.

"Who knows," the HR woman deadpanned as she'd handed him the anthrax mask and a pair of gloves to protect from paper-cuts. "Maybe you'll find something to contribute."

Jim sighed as he ripped the tape off the one-hundredth package he'd come across so far today. This one was padded and addressed to GCN in a curly script and, strangely, there was no postage. Inside he found a slim USB stick, and he frowned as held it up to the light. There was a sticker running along the side that read _'Play Me Tonight'_  in the same curly script. That was odd. He plugged it into his laptop and brought the file up on his screen. It was an audio file.

At this stage, Jim was thinking maybe he should grab a reporter or a producer because a USB stick with an audio file coming through the mail room without postage was  _definitely_  out of the ordinary. Instead, he popped on his headphones and played the file.

The tape crackled and a voice that gave Jim the creeps started to speak in a low growl.

_"You know what people in Gotham are really afraid of...?"_

"Shit!" Jim ripped off his headphones and leaped out of his seat. He spotted a producer passing and rushed over to them. "Hey! I uh, I have something, I think? You've got to hear this!"

The producer looked Jim up and down warily, shrugged, and then followed him back to his desk where Jim offered them his headphones and started the file from the beginning.

"Oh God," the producer muttered, their eyes widening. "Not again."

* * *

Back in her office, Harley grabbed the tape recorder and a copy of the Gotham Gazette she'd purchased that morning. A still of the Joker taken from a CCTV camera covered half the front page under a panic-inducing headline - typical of the Gazette, which frequently trafficked in fear. The photo showed the Joker in full warpaint as he grinned wickedly over his shoulder, the ink melting his features into a Rorschach test.

Harley tucked the paper under her arm and trekked up to D Wing, where the sounds of what could have been a hunting party trying to take down a wounded bear ricocheted down the hallway. Only one orderly was waiting outside the session room, looking distracted by the shouting and groaning as his colleagues attempted to subdue the inmate - a BIG inmate by the sounds of it.

"Everything okay?" Harley asked, craning her neck to peer down the hall.

"Lichtenstein got out of his cell, you know, the big guy." The orderly frowned then looked at Harley. "Will you be okay on your own Dr Quinzel?"

"I'll be fine." Harley smiled and pulled her ID card from her lab coat.

In the session room, the Joker was hunched over the table, his hands folded together as he whistled  _'Strangers in the Night'_  remarkably tunefully. He kept on whistling as Harley perched on the table beside him and slapped the newspaper down in front of him.

The whistle turned into a long note, low and impressed, and his eyes drifted across the front page, at his own image in dramatic black and white then up to Harley. The beginnings of a shit-eating grin on his lips, and he looked almost  _joyful_ as he tilted his face up at her.

"I guess we got their attention," he drawled, quirking his eyebrows mischievously.

"I guess so," Harley agreed happily, though she nearly winced at how  _eager_  she sounded - so eager  _to please -_  and she quickly slid off the table to take her seat across from him. She pushed the recorder across the table, so it sat between them and tapped it on.

"So,  _institutions._  Government, the UN, marriage, neoliberalism. Where do you want to start?"

"Oh, uh,  _definitely_  marriage."

"Okay," Harley chuckled. "Have you ever been married?"

"It's a  _funny_  concept, don't ya think?" he mused dryly, his eyes rolling up to the ceiling. "A  _contract_  to say this person owns half of my stuff and we're gonna stick together till we  _die_. Because we're  _in love_. Not very realistic."

"What about love?" Harley asked lightly. "Is love realistic?"

The Joker made a raspy sound in the back of his throat that might have been a giggle and licked his lips.

" _Love._  If you wanna talk about crazy,  _love_  is a good place to start."

"So marriage is funny, and love is crazy?" Harley summed up with a wry smile. "How about sex? Pointless unless you're trying to conceive?"

_"Oh,_ I wouldn't say that... That's just takin' all the fun out of it." He met Harley's eye and one of those lingering moments passed between them, making Harley squirm. "What do _you_  think, doc? You're a woman. You're the one with all the uh...  _societal pressures_  tellin' ya what you should and should not do..."

"I didn't realize you were such a feminist," Harley smirked, though her toes were curling in her sensible leather loafers. "I don't want to take all the fun out of it, but sex is biology. It's bonding hormones that make you think you're in love. It's pleasure that drives you to reproduce so the species will survive. Everyone knows that, but people want to make sex into some big romantic gesture."

"Ahhh, the romance," the Joker nodded sagely, as if she'd uncovered some salient point. " _Romance_  is where they getcha."

Harley squinted at him, trying to follow his logic. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, _romance_ , it's not real. It's something they package and sell to you." He was on a roll now, leaning forward and speaking faster. "Romance is an industry. All the little boys and girls out there dreaming of red roses and diamond rings and sunset cruises, they're  _all_  getting ready to line up and spend their money on products... the only thing they care about is  _products_."

"It's not just romance," Harley countered enthusiastically. "It's love too. Romance is the product, but love is the pitch."

The Joker released a muted cackle, impressed. "Oh, please,  _elaborate_ , Dr Quinzel."

"Love is an institution based on human frailty," she explained feeling confident with an argument she'd made many times before. "Or, you could say love is an economy based on resource scarcity. We huddle together in our packs to stay safe. We pair off to procreate and protect our genes. Hormones after childbirth and sex make us feel things we used to not be able to explain. Our sentience makes us think this feeling of  _love_  is special because we feel it so strongly and uniquely. But it's just another part of nature that can be explained or used to sell people stuff, whichever you prefer. And anyway..."

She was interrupted by a dull clink on the table, and her eyes darted to the spot where the Joker's hands were folded together. One of the handcuffs had come undone and now lay open beside his pale, naked wrist. Harley stared at that wrist for a few seconds, at the blue veins pumping away beneath the surface, and she half-expected him to courteously put the cuff back on.

Then she caught his eye and saw a wicked gleam there, and a tingle of fear raced over her scalp. She stood swiftly, her legs already shaking, and waved at the CCTV camera. Usually, two guards would have swooped in when she waved. They would have locked the Joker back up and dragged him out, and when the door didn't immediately swing open, Harley reassured herself that his feet were shackled to the floor and if she remained calm everything would be fine...

"Oh, don't stop," the Joker pleaded, his face a mask of innocence as he slowly stood up, the cuffs dangling uselessly from his right hand. He took a step away from his chair, very much not chained to the floor. "Tell me more about  _love_ and humanity."

* * *

**A/N: So, what does everyone think Harley did to her boyfriend?**

**Also, spot the Father John Misty reference.**

**Next: Harley visits the Iceberg Lounge, and things get _much_  more interesting.**

**And please review!**


	5. Chapter 5

The Harlequin

5.

* * *

Harley watched the Joker grow taller as he got to his feet, feeling like she was standing in the shadow of a tidal wave about to engulf her. Unrestrained and at his full height, it suddenly dawned on her that his physical presence was much,  _much_  larger than she'd given him credit for. Taller, his shoulders broader, the wiry arms she was so familiar with suddenly stronger-looking now that he was unbound. There was something wolfishly pleased in his expression as he watched her react to him. Watched fear creep into her as she realized that no, she had been terribly mistaken, she was not safe with this man.

"Oh,  _don't_  stop," he pleaded, clearly enjoying her growing trepidation as he stepped away from the table to block the door. "Tell me more about love and _humanity_."

Too overcome to think clearly, Harley staggered in the opposite direction he was moving and crashed into the wall. Panic stretched through her like a widening flame as he circled the table toward her, and in her panic, Harley could only blindly dance backward until she hit another wall.

"Aww, Harley, you look so scared!" He taunted, delighted by their game of chase. He was wading toward her lazily like they had all the time in the world. "I thought we were _friends_ , hmm? Come  _on._  I don't wanna hurt you."

Her eyes darted to the door, just a few yards away but locked from the inside. When she looked back, the Joker was only feet away, and the impulse to attack him hit her hard enough that she didn't question it. She lashed out with her fist, aiming for his throat like she'd learned at a sorority-sister self-defense class, but she only clipped his shoulder. He barked out a gruff laugh at her weak effort and snatched her hand out of the air before she could draw it back, his crushing grip making her yelp.

He used his hold on her hand to whip her around so her back was to him. One of his arms looped around her waist, trapping her free arm and squeezing her tight. Her right hand remained locked in his, and he forced it over to her left shoulder, effectively using the fleshy part of her arm to cover her mouth. It made her claustrophobic, being so restrained, and that set off a new wave of panic that made her writhe frantically in his grasp.

The Joker let her wriggle and thrash, indulging her for a beat before he lowered his mouth to her ear.

"Shh, shh,  _shh_ ," he hissed gently, almost friendly like they were co-conspirators. "Come on, Harley, help me out here. Be a  _pal._ "

His voice doused cold water on her panic, and she stilled for a moment, absorbing the tone of his voice, the sensation of his breath hot against her cheek and his chest vibrating against her back. It slowed her down until she felt like she was moving through mental quicksand, each sensation of him in her personal space igniting spasms of fear but also _intrigue_. His body was pressed against the length of hers, hard and fleshy and human, squeezing the breath out of her and nearly ripping her arm out of its socket.

 _This_  was him, she realized, human, strong, and fucking terrifying.

She began bucking wildly against him again, trying to get free, and then _briefly_  she  _was_  free. The arms around her body released her just long enough for her to take a deep breath and rotate her arm back into the socket.

But it was  _too_  brief, and a split second later cold metal wrapped around her neck and  _tightened_. It was the handcuffs, she realized with dismay. He still had one wrist handcuffed, and he was using them  _to strangle her._

"Shh, shh," he muttered in her ear as Harley gulped and screeched, trying to get a breath. She could suck down wisps of air, but the fact that she couldn't inhale fully for five, six, seven, eight seconds and counting meant her brain went straight back to blind panic, and she arched backward trying to find slack in the chain.

"Ya know, I really  _don't_  want to you hurt you, Harley," the Joker murmured reluctantly, like she was  _making_  him do this to her. "I enjoy our time together. You  _know_  I do. I uh, I think you have too... so  _please_  don't take this  _personally_."

He drew the cuffs back tighter then let them loose again, and Harley released a quiet whine that made him chuckle. He was strangling her, crushing her throat, but she could still breathe just enough to stay conscious. He wasn't trying to kill her, or at least not kill her quick. This was torture.

"That's it,  _caaaaaalm_  down. It won't be long now," he promised her, hooking his chin over her shoulder and shifting the chain so she could get a fraction more air before tightening it again. " _Love_  this green on you, by the way," he mumbled conversationally. "Or would ya call this  _emerald?_  And here I thought you had terrible taste. Ha...ha..."

Harley was trying to turn her head, to get him to face her so she could covey something with her eyes. She was prepared to beg, but when she finally managed to get him to look at her, he was unfazed by the big, pleading blue eyes imploring him to let her go. He sighed and leaned his cheek against hers, humming thoughtfully, and Harley could feel scar tissue slide against her skin, smooth and bordered by light stubble.

She rubbed her cheek against his, hoping again it would communicate her desperation. She was too light headed now, the room was fading, and all she could feel was his face on hers. It stimulated something strange in her, making her eyelashes flutter as she got lost somewhere between panic and curiosity.

"You look so  _soft_  on the outside," he mused, his mouth next to her ear again, low and rumbling so she felt more than heard him. "But inside... Inside you're  _hard as nails_ , aren't ya? And you're ruthless in your own... funny kinda way.  _I_  wouldn't wanna get on your bad side."

She whined weakly, and he chuckled, pulling the cuffs a tight until she gagged, then loosening them again.

"You know," he started to say, his voice a soft growl lacking all the trappings she'd become accustomed to. They were swaying together on the spot, she realized, a strange, rhythmic dance to accompany the strangulation torture. "I think..."

The buzzer on the door rang LOUD - louder than Harley had ever heard it ring before - and a herd of orderlies and guards flooded the session room, tasers and firearms aimed at the Joker and by effect, Harley too.

They all began shouting at once

_"Let her go, or I'll fucking shoot you!"_

_"Put her down, Joker!"_

_"Release Dr Quinzel, you fucking psycho!"_

The relief she should have felt at her saviors arriving didn't come. Instead, Harley felt empty and lost as darkness began to slant through her vision.

"Come back later, fellahs, we're having a moment here." the Joker was saying over the guards' shouts and demands

"Let her go, freak. Or I  _WILL_  shoot you."

The Joker guffawed loudly, for the guards benefit, then put his mouth close to Harley's ear again. "Come  _on,_  Harley. Help me out."

She didn't know what he meant, but he gave some extra slack to the handcuffs, enough for her to suck in a ragged breath. Oxygen flooded her brain, and she felt simultaneously sick and vibrantly alive. The instinct to fight for freedom kicked in again, and Harley did the best she could with what she had - she threw her elbow back into his gut.

It was a weak effort, and she wasn't expecting it to do much but pull another evil laugh from him. Instead, he groaned melodramatically and released her.

She gasped and staggered forward, nearly crashing face first into the table. Her surroundings became a blur of color and sound. The Joker's laughter and the guards' threats mixing with the sound of tasers electrifying. A sturdy pair of hands closed around her shoulders and directed her out of the session room into the drafty corridor, her feet flapping and stumbling until the hands forced her to sit on the floor. She could feel the cold flagstones through her trousers and the sounds of feet pounding back and forth, but it was the pain that came with each free breath that helped her swim back to reality.

Blakely was rushing toward her with Rosa and Annie on his heels. They were all panic-stricken, and Annie had her medical bag as she fell to the floor beside Harley and shined a penlight in both her eyes. Harley absorbed the light, absorbed their panic, and continued to breathe deeply and think of nothing but the sensation of his face against hers. There was something wet and tasty lingering on the edge of her memory; his mouth maybe, whispering in her ear.

"Harleen - Harleen! Can you hear me?" Annie's voice was controlled, professional, but there was a shade of fear there.

 _Pull it together,_  Harley told herself.  _Ignore the rest._

"I'm okay," she rasped. Her throat stung, but she could still speak.

"Get a gurney!" Blakely shouted at orderlies rushing out of the session room. "Goddamnit, get me a gurney!"

"No, no, it's okay," Harley croaked. She touched a hand to her throat and winced, but her breath was coming more easily now, painful but not unbearable. She sucked in a deep breath and exhaled it slowly before finally looking at her colleagues crowded around her. They were horrified. She could see it in their faces, they were frightened for her because they cared in their own ways, but more than that they were terrified of the Joker.

But looking around at the fear on their faces as she rubbed her sore throat, Harley still had to wonder if she was scared enough.

* * *

Vicki Vale lived in a cockroach-infested studio in Gotham's University district. The roaches may have been plentiful but so was WiFi and that mattered more. She sat huddled over her laptop, surrounded by notebooks and newspapers and printouts stamped with CROWNE GROUP. In the background GCN's Mike Engel was reporting on the candidates running for DA in a special election: Carl Finch, the former DA who lost his seat to Harvey Dent, and Janice Porter, unknown but running a well-financed campaign thanks to high-society fundraisers.

There was  _definitely_  a story there.

To most people, Vicki was a too-attractive-to-be-any-good reporter from the Gotham Gazette, writing fear-mongering pieces about immigrants or gossip about Gotham's trust-fund brigade. But Vicki was also known to the Pulitzer Prize-winning editors of the Gotham Globe, who saw her as a hungry young reporter with an ear to the ground. She had been working on an investigative piece about the many threads connecting Bertrum Crowne to the mob. The Globe said it was good, but it wasn't enough. Keep digging, they said.

The night before Vicki had texted a pitch to the Globe's editor:  _the Joker Prophecies: Behind the Walls of Arkham Asylum._

 _You're better than that, Vicki,_ was the patronizing response.  _Get something serious from your source._

Ha! Her source had an agenda of his own; that was the problem. Or maybe she was just no good after all if she couldn't get Walsh to give her anything but the nuggets he purposefully drip fed her. She was being used, and she knew it, but a story was a story, and the Gazette would pay, and Vicki needed to keep the WiFi on.

_"We here at GCN have been wrestling with a decision all day, but ultimately we have decided that our responsibility is to provide the people of Gotham with the truth. And that truth includes ugly, sometimes frightening stories we do not want to face."_

Intrigued, Vicki turned to the television and could see immediately that Mike Engel did not believe the words coming out of his mouth. His face was strained, anxious, and she knew then what was coming.

" _We have acquired a copy of the Joker tape the Gotham Gazette's Vicki Vale reported on this morning."_

Vicki pumped her fist in the air. "Yes!" She cried jubilantly.

_"And we will play it for you in full. The Joker is a terrorist, and he strives to create fear and division among our citizens. Please keep that in mind and remove any small children from the room; it is... disturbing."_

They brought up the image the Gazette had used of the Joker in full screen and began to play the tape over his horrific, disfigured face. Vicki shuddered, hearing the tape for the fourth time now. She'd made Walsh play it three times even though it made her skin crawl. She was a little pissed that he'd given the original tape to GCN instead of her, but truth be told she didn't want the thing in her possession and she still got a shoutout on the evening news. Maybe soon she'd get an invite to discuss her reporting - from what Vicki'd heard, GCN paid their guests well.

She turned back to her laptop, tuning out the panel of GCN pundits now discussing the Joker tape and what it meant. She was almost wholly absorbed in her research again when her burner buzzed loudly on the table.

It was Walsh, which made her roll her eyes as she checked his message.

_The Joker attacked his doctor this afternoon. Got out of his handcuffs. Nearly killed her by strangulation._

Vicki stared at the message, headlines already appearing before her eyes.

_She's a little shocked but apparently fine. Don't feel guilty._

Vicki's mouth fell open at that message - what a little shit Walsh was!  _Don't feel guilty._

She typed back:  _Need more to publish._

But she already knew the truth. She would write the story, and the Gazette would publish it, and she would get to pay her bills and keep her high-speed WiFi.

* * *

"Now, Quinzel, obviously our primary concern is your health and safety, but as you know, we've had leaks lately."

Harley couldn't hide the disdain she felt. It was ugly and deep and clear.

Everything had become clearer.

She sat in one of the wingback chairs facing Walsh's desk, holding an ice pack to her neck. Her gaze was trained on the window behind Walsh and the PR woman standing beside him. She could see the moon, full and glowing bright like someone had lassoed it closer to earth. She listened to their pitch, remaining silent as they tried to convince her to fall in line with their plan.

Earlier, when she'd been sitting on the floor outside the session room, she could feel herself  _tipping._  Tipping away from the men and women crowding her, fearing for her safety, and toward something else that was slowly, finally developing a shape. When she'd been able to stand with the help of Blakely and Chavez, Harley let them take her to the infirmary where Annie looked her over and filled out a quick medical report. Then Rosa came in and informed Harley that her emergency contact number was out of service, and would she like them to call someone else.

No, there was no one else.

The nurses exchanged sympathetic looks with each other - poor Dr Quinzel - and suggested she get some rest in one of the infirmary beds, which Harley agreed to. She closed her eyes and eavesdropped on their conversation: Walsh didn't want to report the incident to the police, and he wanted the medical report on Harley's injuries destroyed. The Joker had been taken to solitary confinement, as had Lichtenstein. Apparently, when Lichtenstein got out of his cell, he had distracted the guards, and they forgot to secure the Joker's feet. Rosa and Annie were outraged on Harley's behalf.

After a few hours of "rest" - during which Harley turned the incident over in her mind so thoroughly she could have reenacted it - Chavez dutifully escorted her to Walsh's office where she found him waiting with the PR woman. They wanted her to give a tell-all interview about her experience with the Joker, especially what it was like to be attacked by him.

"We think the best way to get ahead of this is for you to come forward and show that actually, this is an incredible story! Especially as a woman - we need  _more women_  telling their stories."

Of course, as a woman, she should want to go on TV and talk about the Joker nearly killing her so Walsh's book - no longer  _their_  book - would become a bestseller.

She'd thought she was numb in the aftermath of the attack, replaying it over in her mind without the fear and panic she'd initially felt... But now, staring out at the moon while she listened to the PR woman's pitch, Harley realized it wasn't numbness at all; she was just _calm_  for the first time in as long as she could remember. The ever-present dissatisfaction with her life had faded, and the world felt real and alive and available to her.

She should have been furious with Walsh for trying to use her  _again_  in this too. She should have felt the same rage that had turned her inside out before. But truthfully she expected no less than this of Walsh, and though he disgusted her, she accepted that he would always use her if he could. It gave her the beginnings of a new purpose, one just within reach of her understanding. And finally having this thing on the horizon that she didn't quite know, it didn't make her afraid or hysterical. She was calm. With ice on her neck and the moon in her sights, she was calm and open to the world as she saw it.

"I'll think about it," she lied to the PR woman and waved off Walsh's offer to pay for a cab to take her home. She didn't want to go home.

She picked up her coat and bag from her office and started to make her way to the station, thanking Chavez for his help when she met him at the entrance and waving back when the guard at the gate wished her goodnight. Where she would go next was less clear. She felt electrified, and she wanted to  _use it._  She nearly texted Dana to go for a drink, but she knew that would have been a let down in the end.

Harley had almost reached Elizabeth Arkham station with an idea brewing in the back of her mind... she wasn't _quite_  decided yet but...

 _"Dr Quinzel,"_ a voice rumbled from the shadows of a narrow alley, making her gasp in surprise.

Harley whirled toward the alley, almost hopeful that something would jump out at her, require her to use her substantial physical strength after her utter failure to defend herself against the Joker.

A figure moved forward, half-illuminated by the street lamps of the main road. A black cowl topped with two long triangles giving the wearer the illusion of a bat.

"Wow," Harley heard herself say, though she'd not meant to say it. Her next thought was of the Joker (again) and how she wished she could tell him about this.

"Dr Quinzel," the Batman said again. "We have to talk."

Harley quickly looked up and down the street to make sure they were alone. Only the kid who'd been selling weed at the station recently was visible, chatting to the bodega owner across the street, out of earshot and sight. She turned back to the Batman and tried to find his eyes within the cowl, the whites only just visible when she squinted into the darkness. He was looking at her throat, which had developed an ugly dark red bruise.

"Talk," she snapped, irritated at his inspection of her.

The fact that this was  _the Batman_ standing before her was a little much to comprehend after the day she'd had. That she knew his secret about Harvey Dent seemed like one of a hundred million things the Joker had shared with her about him, though her instincts told her it was perhaps one of the more significant.

"You've been hurt," the Batman grunted, his mouth hardly moving. "The Joker?"

Harley huffed and looked up and down the street again. "Yes," she confirmed quietly.

It irked her that the Joker had attacked her. On the surface, it proved he'd lulled her into a false sense of security. Maybe not manipulated her outright like he had Harvey Dent, and that had been her primary concern, but certainly made her feel safe when she absolutely was not.

But at the same time, there had been something strange in how he spoke to her throughout it, speaking quietly in her ear so only she would be able to hear. There was something staged about all of it, something calculated that she hadn't worked out yet.

There was a long stretch of silence, and Harley took the opportunity to take in the details of the Batman close up. His mask had ridges around the eyes and nose that obscured the real face beneath, but she suspected not just for the sake of hiding his identity. This was dramatic, meant to inspire fear in his victims, just like the Joker's war paint.

Harley laughed lightly, and she saw the Batman frown at her in the darkness.

"What happened?" He demanded, a little aggressively.

"I don't have to tell you anything," Harley replied petulantly, but after a pause, she continued anyway. "The guards forgot to chain his feet. He picked the lock on the handcuffs and overpowered me."

Another thoughtful pause.

"Why haven't you told the police."

"Why do you think? It looks bad. Arkham has enough bad press, and there's no way the cops would keep this quiet."

The Batman mulled over what she said and then nodded. "You're right."

Harley's eyebrows shot up into her forehead at that. She'd assumed the Batman would be for truth and transparency after all the Joker had told her about his goodness. Then again... Harvey Dent...

Maybe the Batman wasn't so black and white after all.

"Who do you think is leaking?" the Batman pressed, taking a step forward, so more of him was visible in the glow of the street lamps. His suit had a bat monogrammed on the chest.

Harley chuckled again.

"I have no idea," she lied smoothly.

She could feel him studying her, not suspiciously, but like he was trying to work through a puzzle.

"If you need me," he said at length. "Contact Jim Gordon." He looked across the street to the bodega, and Harley turned to see the weed-dealing kid was exiting the store with a soda in hand.

"Be careful Dr Quinzel," the Batman advised.

Harley turned back to ask him what she needed to be careful of, but the Batman had vanished.

She stared down the alley for a few seconds, chewing her bottom lip as her thoughts ticked past. First on the Batman. Then the Joker. Then on herself and where she would go next. It was a risk, she decided, swiping her metro card and climbing the stairs to the North-bound platform.

* * *

Her smell  _lingered_ with him.

Musky, sweet, a little  _rotten._

Rotten and sweet described her  _perfectly_.

Chavez had given his men free reign to kick the shit out of the Joker after they dragged him down to solitary. It was impressive, respectable even that at a joint like this they'd let the men who wanted to beat him black and blue do just that. The Joker suspected this was a special occasion. That hurting their precious Dr Quinzel had crossed a line all these Arkham men could not abide. It was  _very_  interesting that someone as aloof as Dr Quinzel, someone with so few ties to her co-workers, still inspired that level of loyalty in them.

He could understand it. There was something  _stirring_  about her. It didn't take much to feel like you  _owed_  her something. It was bizarre and even a little  _thrilling_.

Lichtenstein had provided the necessary distraction - too easy - but Dr Quinzel was the essential  _X-factor_  that got him where he needed to go.

Everything he'd told her had been true - he considered himself an honest man,  _mostly_  - he hadn't wanted to hurt her  _too_  bad. Maybe just a little to see how she would take it. How she would react.  _Perfectly_ , that was how. Frightened but stubborn, refusing to submit to him. Submission was  _so_ boring.

And he _had_  enjoyed their time together - he wanted her to know that. He'd remember her nihilistic sweetness fondly. And he hardly remembered  _anyone._

The Joker liked grand gestures, so it was lucky that in fulfilling the purpose he'd set for Dr Quinzel -  _Harley -_  he also got to give her a  _generous_  farewell.

Having her so _close_ , watching her  _resist_ , he'd let himself indulge in her smell and the way she felt. No surprise there: she smelled and felt  _very_  good.

Just a little _taste_  of Dr Quinzel.

Harley.

Sweet and rotten.

Hmm. It was too bad. He might miss her. Wouldn't  _that_  be something.

* * *

It was another late night at the station even though Gordon had promised his kids he'd be home in time for a special lasagne. His son helped his wife make it, and when he promised he'd be home in time for dinner, he meant it. Then GCN played the audio of the Joker's veiled threats - without notifying MCU - and all hell broke loose. It felt like a sick, diluted version of the Joker's presence over Gotham during those hellish summer weeks when he took control. He wasn't gone, and he did not intend to be forgotten.

Gordon had just climbed the first step of the porch when a form emerged from the shadows, huge and black, with a cowl shaped like a bat.

"A house call, this can't be good," Gordon sighed, shoving his keys resolutely back into his pocket.

"There was another Joker attack at Arkham," the Batman rumbled. "This time Harleen Quinzel."

"Shit," Gordon sighed and ran a hand through his hair, remembering the Arkham psychologist. She was young and pretty, perfect fodder for the media. "The press are going to eat this up."

"That can't happen," the Bat replied.

"We have our hands full outside of the Joker attacking his jailers," Gordon replied tautly; he was tired and there was lasagne waiting for him inside. "We've got seventy-eight gallons of Jonathan Crane's fear toxin and no idea what to do with it. I have the mayor breathing down my neck to ditch it, but I don't trust it in anyone's hands."

The Batman was pensive on this. "Give me some time," he said at last. "Keep it in lockup for now."

Gordon nodded, hoping that was the end of it.

He could feel the Batman hesitate, and he didn't slip away unseen in his usual exit. This time he put a hand on Gordon's shoulder, friendly like colleagues.

"Get some sleep, Commissioner," he rumbled. "You're going to need it."

It was a depressing truth, but one Gordon had come to accept long ago.

* * *

Uptown was a collection of stylish buildings from Gotham's gilded age and the brownstone buildings that had come before, all a little on the uncared for side, but by no means derelict. It wasn't as swanky as Midtown with its glass and steel skyscrapers, or the two square blocks known as the Diamond District packed full of designer boutiques and luxurious townhouses, but Uptown was undoubtedly a far cry classier than the East Side or the Narrows.

Harley peered at the map on her phone, wondering if the address she'd been given was right. The Iceberg Lounge's website only consisted of a silvery background overlaid with the bar's address in elegant white script. Simple, mysterious, and available to anyone with the inclination to find it. Except the address didn't appear to be a club at all, not like the ones she'd passed on the main drag with door attendants wearing hats trimmed with gold brocade or the wine bars packed with trendy people looking for a cheaper night.

This building was built in the art-deco style so popular during the gilded age and looked like it might have once been a grocery store with its large windows now blacked out. Unlike the clubs on the main drag, it wasn't pulsing with music and revelers, but sat silently and inconspicuously, a building anyone could pass by without a second thought.

Confused, Harley peered down the alley that ran along one side of the club and spotted dumpsters and busboys in suits smoking cigarettes. The alley down the other side was too narrow for a car to get down, but a line of well-dressed people had formed under a street lamp. They were chattering happily with each other, laughing and pulling their coats closer as they waited for the doormen to let them in.

As Harley moved closer, she could see the women were wearing silk dresses and fur coats while the men were in dinner jackets, leading her to believe this bar was a shade fancier than the mob dive she'd been expecting. She had applied a slick of Dana's ruby lipstick but was still more than aware that her shapeless slacks and flat loafers were drawing attention as she stepped up to the doorman, sensing this may take some degree of greasing.

"Hello," she greeted with a sweet smile.

The doorman looked her over once and shook his head. "Sorry miss, the Iceberg Lounge's dress code is Cocktail at least."

"Cocktail at least?" Harley stifled a chuckle at the preposterous notion. She took a step closer to the doorman, hoping to convey that she wasn't there for  _cocktails_. "I'm looking for Lucy," she explained, feeling ridiculous. "She told me Mr Penguin wanted me to come by."

One of the doorman's eyebrows lifted, and he looked down at his clipboard.

"You wouldn't happen to be... Harleen Quinzel would you?"

Harley bobbed her head once to confirm.

"You've been on the list all week," the doorman informed her, unhooking the velvet rope to allow her through.

She passed through the velvet rope into a dimly-lit hallway covered in framed, signed photographs of old singers and actors, some in war-time get-ups and others in formal wear. Harley moved slowly, her pulse picking up as she began imagining what she might find at the end of the hallway. A den of gangsters, maybe, or possibly something more glamorous but no less dangerous. If Penguin was a money launderer, they would no doubt want to pump as much cash as possible through their tills. She reached the end of the hallway where a burly young man wearing a coat with tails took her jacket in exchange for a silver ticket stamped with '92' in white cursive.

Harley examined the ticket, unlike any coat check receipt she'd ever seen before and decided, yes, there was a lot of money changing hands at the Iceberg Lounge.

Someone cleared their throat behind her but instead of jumping - the Batman sneaking up on her was her new barometer for being startled - she looked over her shoulder to find a weathered, middle-aged man in a coat with tails and a red cummerbund that seemed to indicate a position of authority.

"This is Louis," the coat check boy informed her gravely. "He doesn't talk."

"Okay," Harley shrugged, growing a tad impatient with all the pretense.

Louis gestured for her to follow him through a heavy black curtain that led to a circular oak door through which she could hear the thrum of a bouncy bass line. Ah, Harley realized, it was supposed to feel like a secret Prohibition-era club. They were really going out of their way for the effect but perhaps being a mob club, being so secretive had its practical purposes too.

The oak door swung inwards, and Harley was hit full in the face by the trilling of a brass band punching out a Ragtime tune. Taken aback, she ignored Louis gesturing for her to follow him so she could absorb the club in full. It was all glittery art deco diamonds and lux velvet curtains, lit entirely by candelabras and a huge crystal chandelier filled with candles instead of electric lights overhead. Harley had to remind herself that she was in a mob club to meet a money launderer, not just stopping by for a drink of something that would no doubt be of the same nostalgic ilk as everything else the Iceberg Lounge had to offer.

She followed Louis across the floor, through a sea of crowded tables covered in white cloths. Men in suits and women in strappy dresses sipped from martini glasses and champagne flutes, trying to hear each other over the music. Harley turned her head away when she spotted Bobby Kane, Arkham board member and "bad boy" from  _Made in the Diamond District,_  along with his cousin Kennedy, also known for her "bad girl" antics on the show. Everywhere she looked, there were men who looked like they'd been taken from central casting for  _Goodfellas_  with their oily hair and over-tanned skin. Then there were the girls on their arms, sporting skyscraper heels and false eyelashes.

Harley was so distracted eyeing up the guests that she almost ran straight into Louis when he stopped in front of a set of swinging chrome doors leading into a kitchen. He shot her a look over his shoulder then gestured for her to go through the doors, and Harley complied, intrigued by what was to come. The fluorescent kitchen lights were blinding after the dimly lit club, and it was immediately obvious this kitchen was not used for culinary purposes. Harley's eyes swept over the stainless steel tables and butchers slab, imagining movie-inspired scenarios where _'wiseguys'_  in need of  _'motivation'_  were subjected to gruesome fates.

"Ah, Dr Quinzel!"

Harley turned at the sound of her name and nearly did a double take. Before her stood a young man, possibly younger than her, dressed all in a black aside from a flamboyant purple cravat knotted at his throat, his black hair styled in sharp points across his forehead. His skin was sallow like he didn't see enough daylight, and his eyes were so sunken he might have looked ill if it weren't for the keenness lurking in his otherwise friendly smile.

"Hello," Harley replied cautiously, not missing the way he looked down at her sensible leather loafers and seemed to judge them as disappointing. She looked down his shoes - pointy and shiny in black patent leather.

He opened his arms wide and beamed at her. "I am Oswald Cobblepot," he informed her, and when Harley didn't react, he continued, still grinning. "Some people call me Penguin."

Harley lifted an eyebrow and glanced around the kitchens again. Louis had silently departed, and they were alone.

"You sent your friend Lucy to convince me to come," she said conversationally, eager to speed up the formalities."Why?"

She met his eye and saw he was still beaming, almost with pride.

"Lucy is a trusted confidant," Penguin replied, clapping his hands together. "Now, can I get you a drink? Champagne or maybe-"

"I meant  _why_  are you interested in me?" Harley interrupted, seeing he would drag this out if he could. She was there for answers, not champagne.

Penguin dialled his grin down to something more thoughtful but still cheerful. He limped a few steps closer so they were both standing beside the butcher's block.

"Dr Quinzel," he sighed happily, reaching for her hand and clasping it between his reassuringly. "I thought it was despicable the way the media treated you when the Joker...  _maimed_  that poor orderly. It was obvious to me that Arkham used you as a scapegoat. Such terrible behavior that you do not deserve."

"Thanks," Harley slowly drew her hand away and placed it on the butcher's block, sensing this was not the primary reason he was asking to be her 'friend.' "But that can't be helped. A greedy misogynist runs Arkham, and he's not going to stop  _behaving_  that way any time soon."

"Well," Penguin looked off into the corner and grimaced as if contemplating something distasteful. Out in the club, the band changed to a slower, more romantic number. "There are, of course, ways to communicate your displeasure to Dr Walsh. I have such methods at my disposal if you would like to, how do they say, send a message?"

Harley let her head fall to the side, a slow smile forming on her lips as she stared at Penguin, so brazenly offering to threaten Walsh as if it was a simple favor.

"Interesting idea," she conceded, still smiling, and noticed a twitch run through his pale face under her scrutiny. "But I can handle Walsh. That isn't why you asked me to come here... to be  _your friend_. Are you going to tell me what you really want?"

"Very well, Dr Quinzel," Penguin chuckled and began nodding his head, as if he'd come to a conclusion. "Let us be open with one another. You are clearly more worldly than one might assume, excuse me, looking at you. A classic case of judging a book by its cover, if I may turn a phrase."

Harley's mouth hardened as she thought back to the Joker's mouth against her ear as he told her she was soft on the outside but hard on the inside. She knew this to be the truth already, and she didn't need the Joker or Penguin to tell her.

"You see," Penguin brought his hands together again and plastered on his big beaming grin. "You have access to the Joker, and  _I_ would like to get a message to him."

Deep down, Harley had known all of this was about the Joker. There was nothing else that made her worthwhile of a mobster's time but her connection to him. But this didn't deflate her ego. Her connection to the Joker gave her power.

"I may not have access to him anymore," Harley admitted, though she didn't really believe it. She gestured to the bruising around her throat, partially concealed by the collar of her shirt.

"My, my," the Penguin blinked rapidly now that he could see the bruises. He swayed closer to get a better look, and Harley thought he might have had to remind himself not to get too close as he hesitated and pulled back. "That is...  _he_  did that to you?

"Yes," she said calmly.

He met her eye warily. "And now you will refuse to see him?"

Harley laughed. "No, but the board will almost certainly put a hold on our interviews for now."

Penguin was beaming again. "For now," he said cheerfully. "But not forever. I am impressed, Dr Quinzel. Very well, when 'for now' has passed, will you tell him something for me?"

Harley gestured for him to continue.

"I would very much like to be his friend. And I would need him to confirm that he would like to be my friend in return." Penguin's smile was placid, not giving anything away.

"You mean..." she faltered for the first time, unable to hide her surprise. They had agreed to speak plainly, but Harley had not expected him to be as plain as that. "You mean you want to help him escape Arkham?"

"You know him better than anyone, Dr Quinzel," Penguin replied evasively. "Do you truly believe the Joker can be locked away for good?"

Harley reflected on her feelings over the Joker's incarceration for perhaps the first time then. She'd thought about helping Crane and had come to the conclusion that she couldn't trust him. Not trusting him was a more substantial reason in her mind than the fact that it was completely _illegal_  to release a convicted terrorist, and that she would be complicit in any further crimes he committed.

But the Joker... she had always accepted his being locked up as his place in her world, never having known him in the flesh outside the walls of Arkham. That afternoon she got a glimpse of it, and it nearly killed her. How could she consider helping him escape?

But Penguin wasn't necessarily suggesting that, she told herself. He wanted a relationship with the Joker, and if it came to an escape, she could put herself in their path. She could stop them. Passing on this message wouldn't do any damage, but it would curry her favor with Penguin, which she decided she needed about ten seconds after the Batman disappeared from that ally. Dangerous times called for dangerous methods.

"Alright," she agreed, feeling Penguin watching her closely. "I'll tell him."

Penguin smiled so widely his face looked liable to split in half, and he abruptly clasped Harley by both shoulders and squeezed her.

"That is excellent news," he beamed. "Excellent news. Thank you, Dr Quinzel."

Harley rolled her shoulders back to escape his grasp and offered a thin smirk.

"Call me Harley," she told him, the words rolling off her tongue before she could stop them.

Penguin's eyes lit up with something Harley wasn't entirely sure how to interpret, then the kitchen doors swung open behind them, and Lucy slipped in. This time she was wearing a black shift dress that was far more conservative than her pink denim get-up - her Iceberg Lounge uniform, Harley decided - and she had a briefcase under one arm.

Lucy shot a furtive look over her shoulder into the club before coming to stand beside Penguin and placing the suitcase on the butcher's block beside them.

"Harley," the Penguin nodded respectfully. "As a show of gratitude, I would like to give you something. For your protection."

Lucy typed a four-digit code into a keypad on the briefcase, and it popped open. She pulled out something small wrapped in a red silk scarf and handed it over to Harley with a smile.

Harley had never held a gun before, but she knew immediately that it was a gun wrapped in that scarf. The weight was exactly what she would guess, and the shape of it felt obvious. She didn't unwrap it in front of Penguin and Lucy, both of whom were watching her carefully for a reaction. Instead, she slipped it into her handbag, hoping the safety was on and she wouldn't wind up shooting herself on the ride home. She didn't fully understand why Penguin was giving her a gun but 'for her protection' screamed of mob lingo that implied more than it said.

"Thank you, Oswald," Harley gave him a rueful smile like his act of generosity touched her rather than bewildered her.

"Of course," he made a short bow. "Lucy, call our friend Harley a cab. Gotham is so dangerous after dark, and we need to keep her as safe as possible."

Harley smiled again, a little dryly this time because hell, Penguin laid it on a little thick.

Then again, so did a few other people she knew.

* * *

Penguin collapsed into the leather chair behind his desk and sighed contentedly, a ridiculous grin still on his face. It had been an incredibly successful evening. The club was booming, the clientele was a perfect mix of socialites and thugs, and Dr Quinzel -  _Harley_  - had impressed him far beyond his expectations.

'Call me Harley,' she'd said with a little smirk that sent a genuine chill up his spine.

Lucy flopped into the chair across from him and pulled what was almost certainly a joint out of her bra, giving him a wink as she lit it. She knew he would allow it since she'd done such a good job getting Dr Quinzel to visit.

Louis placed three goblets on the desk and filled each with wine, a vintage from the cellar saved for celebrations, which this most certainly was. Penguin drank deeply from the goblet and sighed again.

"You happy, boss?" Lucy smirked, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

Penguin reflected on his brief but very productive conversation with Dr Quinzel. He had not expected such a stunning creature after the photos he'd seen of a shrew-like woman wearing a lab coat and terrible shoes. The shoes were still awful, but there had clearly been a change in her since those photos were taken. Ruby red lips, startling blue eyes, tousled blonde hair. She held herself with the collected confidence of a blossoming goddess.

If Penguin had been interested in the fairer sex, he might have fallen in love on the spot.

But there was a fearlessness about her that made him wonder who Dr Harleen Quinzel  _really_  was. Penguin was almost a little scared of that fearlessness, the way she sported the bruises the Joker had given her as if they were the product of nothing but an inconvenience. When he put a gun in her hand, she didn't so much as flinch. When he offered to threaten her boss, she had been unfazed. When he suggested he would help the Joker escape, she'd taken it in stride.

Not the way a civilian would react. Not at  _all_.

"She was a little creepy, don't ya think, boss?" Lucy asked.

Louis snorted at Lucy's lack of tact, something he had in spades. It was what made him such an agreeable bodyguard.

"Creepy is too harsh," Penguin said, swallowing the last of his wine. "But you're not wrong. There is something...  _intriguing_  there."

"I wonder if the Joker finds her intriguing," Lucy grinned. "Face like that? Yowzer! The boys were drooling!"

Penguin chuckled, imagining the Joker falling for Dr Quinzel. It was impossible to conceive. He may have been a man, but a mind as calculating and sadistic as the Joker's could not possibly get distracted by something like a pretty face. Penguin laughed again, a little louder, and shook his head.

"I would be  _very_  concerned for Dr Quinzel if that were to happen," he laughed. "The Joker in love. How ridiculous!"

Lucy shuddered. "I trust you, boss, but are you sure it's safe? He's a total wacko."

"It is a drastic measure, I agree," Penguin poured himself another glass of wine, nodding sagely. "But the Joker is just a man beneath his fear mongering and chaos. He is not as all-powerful as he thinks he is."

"If you say so, boss," Lucy shrugged.

Penguin smiled into his goblet. It was dangerous to engage the Joker, of course, but Penguin had long ago proved to himself that he was the kind of man who could bring the Joker to heel.

* * *

Climbing the steps to her building, Harley felt exhausted. Her throat was scratchy and sore, something she'd been ignoring all night, and her head felt fuzzy like her brain had turned to static. She had accepted a ride home from Penguin despite her reservations - now he knew where she lived - and she'd spent the last forty minutes in a sleek black sedan that smelled of potent air freshener, the smell keeping her awake during the drive back east even as her limbs began to grow lazy.

It had been... a long day.

Harley felt like she had too much data to input, and her brain simply couldn't process all of it. Crane pleading with her. The Joker attacking her. Walsh pushing her to go on TV. The Batman warning her. Penguin propositioning her. Now there was a gun in her bag and tomorrow no doubt something new would arise.

She wasn't sure what she had agreed to with Penguin, but she did  _not_  intend to let that strange, sallow man use her as Walsh did. During the drive home, she'd analyzed the weaknesses he'd shown through their brief conversation. He was vain, narcissistic, power-hungry. It was obvious why he chose her to be his contact for the Joker - he believed he was capable of convincing anyone to do his bidding, even an upstanding doctor of clinical psychology. Perhaps even the Joker. She needed to stay on her toes around him. Harley did not doubt she would encounter him again, and she wanted to be ready.

She let herself into her apartment and stepped through the debris of the hallway mirror and the shattered vase to get to the bathroom. Penguin made for an interesting puzzle to work through - one that intrigued her without giving her any answers - and he had been suitably distracting. Now she was alone, at last, her mind still humming through its exhaustion, begging her to dwell on the thing that had plagued her all evening.

The bathtub tap squealed when Harley turned on the tap, and she let the water run until it was hot enough to burn her fingertips. She shed her bag, coat and the rest of her clothes in a pile next to the tub then climbed in and stretched out, allowing her thoughts to turn back to the session room once more.

His scarred face pressed against hers, his mouth against her ear. She was sure now it had been a charade; that she had been bait or a distraction or something other than just his victim. But it was the feel of his scars on her cheek and the way they'd swayed together while he strangled her that she couldn't stop thinking about. There had been something sensual in it, not sexual or arousing, but subtle. Like a familiar scent perking up the senses. Stimulating curiosity and even a little exciting.

Harley relived it again, letting her head fall back against the porcelain as she thought about him. Something in her gut was urging her on, wanted her to explore this feeling she got from the Joker, just as it has encouraged her to visit Penguin. These were the kind of impulses she was supposed to ignore for the sake of living her normal life, but she was becoming less and less inclined to do so. It was... freeing. But surely not sustainable.

The water reached the lip of the tub and Harley turned the faucet off before slipping beneath the surface, letting the air out of her lungs so she would sink to the bottom. With her eyes shut, she counted to ten, then to twenty, then tried to reach thirty before she had to break the surface, gasping down a mouthful of air so hard it made her throat ache. She sat with her face resting against her bent knees, remembering the feeling of his chest vibrating through her back and up her spine as he spoke to her.

Penguin's suggestion that he wanted to break the Joker out of Arkham had, for the first time, made her wonder what knowing the Joker outside of Arkham would be like. And she had an idea that what she'd experienced in the session room and what she was feeling now was only a taste of what could come.

A very seductive taste.

And  _incredibly_  selfish.

And very,  _very_ dangerous.

If Harley were studying herself, she knew exactly what she would diagnosis. Classic identity crisis. Failure to develop a core identity in adolescence? No surprise there considering the childhood she'd had. Acute trauma during the critical identity-forming years of her early-twenties...  _that_  night of  _that_  incident with her college boyfriend ticked the box perfectly. Overachieving to fill a void? Hoo-boy, was that on the nose. Harley wasn't in the middle of an identity crisis; she had been in crisis for decades.

But beneath the restrictive person she'd molded herself into, the person she put forward for a society to see and accept, there were two things Harley had always known about herself. She had an iron will and she did not need anyone's help to survive.

If those two things were true but the rest was a fantasy... who was she supposed to be?

No, who did she  _want_  to be.

She leaned over the edge of the tub and pulled her handbag closer by its strap, retrieving Penguin's gift. The scarf was more like a large handkerchief, scarlet and silky, expensive. There was a message in the scarf itself, but Harley didn't know what it was. She didn't understand Penguin's world well enough to discern unspoken words. A gun was obvious, though. A gun meant you were in deep.

She pulled the layers of silk apart, the embroidered corners dipping into the bathwater as she stared down at the gun balanced in her palm. It was shiny, polished metal, maybe nickel. Its make and model was engraved on the barrel -  _Beretta 92 SF_. There was a safety but no hammer like she'd expected, another cinematic idea of what a gun was supposed to look like.

For a while she toyed with the clip, working out how to release it and understand it's deadly mechanisms. Was she really expected to use it? And if so, on who? One of the sprawling cast of characters who had appeared in her life of late? Herself?

This last thought made her blow out a long breath and sink back down into the water, holding the gun by its barrel over the edge of the tub.

 _What do I do,_  she thought, her eyes growing heavy as the bathwater got cold. Not  _why me_ or  _how is this happening to me_. It made sense that she would be the Joker's psychologist above the less competent, less motivated members of staff. It made sense that men would want to use her. It made sense that her impulsive curiosity would draw her into something dangerous if she allowed it. And it was empirically evident the Joker's presence in her life had helped launch a series of events that led her to be sitting in the bath with a gun in her hand, placed there by a mobster as she questioned the life she'd constructed for herself.

So the real question was,  _what did she do next?_

She used her toes to pull the plug from the drain, letting her eyes close as the bathwater emptied around her.

* * *

It was nearing 4 AM before Vicki was somewhat happy with the piece she'd written about the Joker's attack on Harleen Quinzel. She agonised over her depiction of Dr Quinzel - first as a hapless victim who didn't deserve what happened to her, then the more sensational portrait of an incompetent woman who shouldn't be allowed in the same room as the Joker, then as a fame-hungry femme-fatale who would risk her life if it meant getting in the papers.

Vicki had never met Harleen Quinzel, only seen pictures of a woman who wore her hair pulled back too tight and had a record that suggested she was more than competent. It made Vicki feel a little sick, but in the end, she painted Dr Quinzel as all three: weak, incompetent, fame-hungry. It wasn't nice, but it would sell papers, get the pundits talking, and keep Walsh happy so he'd continue feeding her information about the Joker.

Obviously, it had occurred to Vicki that the more Joker stories she wrote, the more likely it was she could get a book deal about him... and maybe one about Arkham itself...

She lit a cigarette, conflicted but already knowing what she would do.

There was a light knock on her front door then, startling her from her thoughts. She dropped her cigarette in an ashtray beside her computer and crept over to the front door, unsure and a little wary of who would be knocking on her door at 4 AM. It had to be a neighbor for them to get through the main entrance without buzzing. But when she peered through the peephole, she saw two strangers on her doorstep. A girl wearing fishnet stockings and a cropped pink denim jacket, and a tall, brooding man in a long dark coat. Through the peephole, she saw them exchange a look, and then the man knocked again.

"Miss Vale, we just wanna talk to ya," the girl called out, friendly and smiling compared to her counterpart.

Vicki stepped back from the door. No way she was opening the door to two strangers in the middle of the night.

She was reaching for the latch when the front door buckled and swung in under the weight of the brooding man's shoulder.

Vicki stumbled backward, too shocked to do anything but use the chair she'd been sitting in as a barrier between her and the brooding man stomping toward her while the girl calmly pushed the door closed and used the latch to keep it shut. The man shoved the kitchen chair aside and grabbed a handful of Vicki's hair before she had a chance to react. A shriek got caught in her throat as he pushed her face down on her kitchen table beside her laptop, the article still proudly on display there. She sucked in a deep breath, preparing to scream bloody murder when the man picked up her cigarette and held the burning end up to her eye, effectively turning her scream into a terrified whimper.

The girl set the chair upright and took a seat so her face was close to Vicki's. She had a light spattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks that made her look younger and far more innocent than she was.

"Hiya," she greeted with a smile. "Like I said, we just wanna talk."

Vicki whimpered again, trying to find her voice. "About what?" She whispered hoarsely, feeling the heat of the cigarette on her eyelid.

The girl shifted to peer at the laptop screen, reading the first few lines of the article before she turned back to Vicki.

"Didn't I tell ya, Louis?" She said to the brooding man. "Miss Vale's got the best sources in town."

Louis grunted in the affirmative.

"We don't wanna step on your toes, Miss Vale. We get that it's rough out there and ya gotta do what ya gotta do," the girl hesitated, looking back at the screen. "But don't you think it's kinda _mean_  to go telling lies about Dr Quinzel?"

"Wha-what?" Vicki stammered, trying to look up at the girl. Louis yanked her head down again, making her scalp burn where he was pulling her hair.

"You know, Dr Quinzel. Nice lady, blonde, got attacked by the Joker at her work yesterday," the girl sighed discontentedly. "Violence against women is a real problem in this city. I'd like to think you'd want to be writin' about that instead of calling Dr Quinzel..." she peered at the screen again. "An incompetent staff member who doesn't deserve the second or even third chance she's been given..."

Vicki's mind whirred, trying to make sense of what was happening. Thugs had come to her house and were threatening her over her depiction of Harleen Quinzel.

"Who are you!" She exclaimed, finding it impossible to believe the shrew-ish Dr Qunizel could have hired them. "Do you - do you work for her?"

"Oh, no, no," the girl laughed. "Nice lady like that? Nah, we're uh... friends of a friend, you could say. And me, I just don't like lies, ya know? Disinformation is a real big problem right now. That's what I've read, anyway." She shrugged. "You ain't a... whaddya call it... a  _troll_ , are ya Miss Vale?"

Louis stamped out the cigarette on the kitchen table and let Vicki stand up though he remained close, looming over her. Her legs shook so hard she had to grab the table to stay upright.

The girl was scrolling through the article, making disappointed tisking sounds.

"It's not good, Louis," she sighed. "It's just not good. I think we're gonna need ya to re-write this, Miss Vale."

"You're serious?" Vicki stammered. Then she watched, wide-eyed, as Louis gave an exaggerated yawn, exposing the stump of a severed tongue in the back of his throat.

The girl stood up, gesturing for Vicki to take the seat in front of the laptop. She offered her a friendly smile and Vicki collapsed into the chair, unable to stand any longer. She lifted shaking hands to the keyboard, then turned nervously to look at the girl for direction.

"Oh, don't worry," the girl said cheerfully. "We'll wait."

* * *

When Harley's eyes opened the next morning, she looked around slowly, examining her surroundings. She was still in the empty bathtub, naked and shivering with the Beretta wedged between the side of the tub and her hip.

Sighing, she pulled herself to her feet and stepped delicately through the glass on the bathroom floor to get to her bedroom.

First, she fetched the ironing board from the hall cupboard, then she found a pair of slacks and a shirt from the maelstrom of clothes on her bedroom floor. A turtleneck would have been appropriate considering the bruises on her neck, which had become worse overnight, but she couldn't bring herself to care enough, and part of her wanted people to see them. When she was dressed, she poked her head into her closet, sifting through the mess until she found a pair of sling-back kitten heels she'd last worn the day she was awarded her PhD.

She applied red lipstick, something that had become part of her routine of late, and went to work.

The sun hadn't yet risen when Harley arrived at Arkham, the night staff still on duty. Chavez was at the gate, looking surly as he unlocked the front doors, and the halls were quiet aside from the occasional wail of an inmate.

In her office, Harley opened up the Elliot spreadsheet with a cup of sludgy coffee in hand and got to work scheduling sessions with appropriate patients, reviewing blood work, and altering data to give the Kane's more desirable results. It was what they wanted to bring their product to market before the end of the year, and Harley sensed staying in their good graces would be helpful to have in her back pocket.

Was it corrupt? Yes. Was it exactly what the Globe's reporters had accused them of? Yes. But if she was being accused, she might as well make the most of it.

Good Dr Quinzel with her patient smile and her methodical if not controversial approach to psychology.

No more ethical than Jonathan Crane in the end.

Walsh barged in sometime after the sun came up, his skin looking a little gray and his eyes red-rimmed. He was still wearing his coat, indicating he'd come straight to her office.

"Quinzel!" He blustered, his piggish nostrils flaring as he stomped up to her desk. "Why haven't you answered your phone!"

Harley glanced down at the handset on her desk and shrugged.

"It's dead. What is it, Murphy?" She folded her arms and gazed up at him impassively.

He pulled his phone from his coat pocket and shoved it into her hands. There was a Gotham Gazette article on the screen. The Joker's mugshot beneath the headline  _JOKER ATTACKS ARKHAM DOCTOR_.

"What's the problem?" Harley wondered aloud, looking back up at Walsh with one eyebrow raised. When he continued to silently fume, she read the first few lines of the piece.

She had to stifle a giggle

_"The Gazette has learned that revered Arkham psychologist Dr Harleen Quinzel was attacked by the terrorist known as the Joker yesterday at Arkham Asylum. Sources say Dr Quinzel - who graduated Magna Cum Lada from Gotham University and has been published in over one-hundred periodicals - was subjected to strangulation after the Joker escaped from his restraints. Early reports indicate that another maximum security inmate - Herbert "Razorback" Liechtenstein - escaped his cell, distracting security to the point that the Joker was not properly restrained. Arkham employees are said to be relieved that Dr Quinzel has recovered quickly from the incident, a testament to her bravery and professionalism."_

Harley looked back up at Walsh again, trying to hide a smirk and failing.

"Not what you were expecting?" She asked lightly.

Walsh scoffed. "This is a disaster! The board has already called a meeting to discuss punitive action!"

Trying not to roll her eyes, Harley decided to keep her thoughts to herself on this occasion. Walsh's 'journalist' pal at the Gazette opted to tell the truth for once - although ' _revered psychologist'_  was laying it on a little thick - and he couldn't see how absurd it was that the truth had fucked him over so badly.

"I don't know what to tell you," Harley said, passing him back his phone. "It's Vicki Vale you need to speak to. Not me. Now, you'll have to excuse me. I have patients to see."

She got to her feet and pulled on her lab coat, ignoring Walsh until he finally stormed out.

Harley carried on with her day as if everything was perfectly normal. She saw a string of C wing patients on the Elliot drug, including Joey Nash, who as per usual threatened to rape her. She cut the interview short and had him sent to solitary confinement. In her notes, she suggested patients (inmates) were showing marked signs of temperament improvement on the new drug, including Nash.

She ate lunch with Rosa and Blakely in the staff room, making small talk about their grandchildren and sharing a slice of carrot cake Rosa's daughter made.

There was a session with Crane on the books, but after some begging and pleading, she convinced Blakely to take over his treatment.

"I'm too close to it," she told Blakely. He agreed wholeheartedly, relieved, and proud that she would come to this conclusion on her own.

* * *

Forty-eight hours later found Harley in her now semi-permanent position at her desk, working tirelessly on the Elliot report. She had slept in her office the night before, too tired to continue or go home when she'd crashed on the therapist's couch around 2 AM. There was a board meeting the following day, and Harley was determined to deliver her...  _edited_  research to be peer reviewed before she faced members of the Kane family at the meeting.

In the wake of the Joker attack, Harley was once again the subject of media speculation. Her Arkham email was flooded with requests for quotes and appearances and spots on GCN panels. She mass deleted almost all of them, relieved that she'd abandoned her old number so at least the media mob couldn't harass her by phone, even if they were collecting at the front gates again.

It was another late night, and Harley was plowing through research, the conclusion to her work in sight. She was taking a break to mass-delete emails when she came across one that stood out. It was from the Crowne Society, the charitable arm of the Crowne Group. She hesitated in opening it, remembering Bertrum "Bertie" Crowne laughing boorishly when Marie Kane had suggested he invite Harley to their charity event.

_Dear Dr Quinzel,_

_Bertrum_ _and Louise Crowne would like to personally extend an invitation to the Crowne Society's Charitable Gala for Stop Blood Diamonds Now at Gotham's Natural History Museum this Saturday at 7 o'clock. Please RSVP by Thursday if you are able to attend and an invitation will be mailed to you. The dress code is Formal._

_Best Wishes, Danielle Smith, Event Coordinator for the Crowne Society._

Harley sat back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling, unsure what to make of the invitation.  _Gala_  wasn't a word in her vocabulary, let alone an actual event in her reality. Was she being invited because the Kane's were worried about how her research would pan out? Or was she just entertainment for the trust fund brigade so they could hear about how evil and scary the Joker was? A curiosity to regale them with terrifying tales.

Undecided, Harley flagged the invitation and went back to her paper. It was nearly midnight before she finished and submitted her doctored research to Elliot. She went home, showered, and slept for five hours before returning to Arkham for a day that she miserably realized would be the beginning of a new, boring chapter... at least until the Joker was returned to D Wing and her sessions with him could begin again.

There was a board meeting in the afternoon that would break up a day of patient check-ins and new inmate processing. Harley could feel herself shrinking inwards, bored, disengaged, and steadily more depressed after the high of the previous week.

Then, shortly before lunchtime, she received a package. It was only a padded manila envelope, the label printed out and the stamp authenticated, and inside Harley discovered an old Nokia phone and its charger. She examined the phone, her eyes narrowed and confused until she turned it over in her hands. On the back, there was a sticker of a Penguin, the cutesy holiday kind of Penguin sticker, but a Penguin nonetheless. He'd sent her a phone. That meant he wanted to talk.

Harley didn't have time to talk, but she was pretty sure she'd make time. She stuffed the phone and charger back in the envelope and then into her desk drawer before rushing to the board room, a bounce in her step.

It only got better from there.

The board was furious with Walsh. He'd brought Chavez along, probably hoping to pass the blame for the Joker's attack onto the security team. But the board wasn't interested in what had happened to Harley. It was the leaks they found unacceptable.

"Everyone who works here has signed a Non Disclosure Agreement," Walsh argued.

"Then how is the media getting this information!" Arkham's relation argued back.

"Jonathan Crane didn't have any leaks, and he was torturing patients!" Magda complained.

"Unacceptable!"

"Murphy, really this has to stop."

"The asylum will stop getting funded if we can't control the inmates - let alone the staff!"

Harley kept her head down to hide her smile. Walsh hadn't planned for Vale to paint him so badly, whatever had changed her mind, it was  _delicious._

But then the board turned to her.

"Dr Quinzel, we think you should accept GCN's offer of an interview. You can do some damage control."

"I'd rather not," she said firmly, imagining a world where she was even more in the public eye than she already was.

"But Dr Quinzel -"

"No, Elias, she said no," Marie Kane spoke up, literally clutching her pearls. "Murphy, perhaps it should be you. I take it you've been speaking to the PR woman we sent over?"

It was agreed that Walsh would represent the asylum, even if he were a less than ideal candidate. It was apparent in every member of the board's eyes: Murphy Walsh was out, Harleen Quinzel was in.

"Dr Quinzel, may I speak to you?" Marie Kane stopped Harley as the board filed out of the room.

"Of course," Harley agreed with a polite smile appropriate for the matriarch of the family funding her research.

"How are you holding up, Dr Quinzel?" Marie asked once they were alone in the corridor, away from prying ears. She reached for Harley's hand and offered her a kind, if not simpering smile. "Such a dreadful thing to happen to you," she continued, releasing Harley's hand. "You know, I was having dinner with Lulu and Bertie Crowne last night - they say they've invited you to the gala this weekend! How fun!"

"Um," Harley faltered, remembering the out-of-the-blue invitation for the first time since she'd opened it the night before. "I'm not sure if I'll go..."

"Aren't you going to RSVP?" Marie pushed, and Harley got the impression that she would have been raising her eyebrows in surprise if the muscles in her forehead weren't paralyzed. "Lulu and Bertie throw the  _best_  parties. They're donating his great-great-grandmother's sapphire to the Natural History Museum, you know. She brought it over from Hungry! But you should come! Oh, it'll be such fun, Dr Quinzel."

"I don't own anything formal," Harley admitted awkwardly, unsure if she wanted to go at all. Dressing up and rubbing elbows with people who considered themselves her betters wasn't her idea of a party but she  _was_  curious, and it would be something to break up the monotony...

"Oh, that's no problem," Marie waved her off with another simpering smile. "Sofia Falcone is a dear friend. You remember, we met her at the Ritz last month? I'll just call up her boutique, and we'll have something sent over. Doesn't that sound fun! Dr Quinzel, if you don't mind me saying, you could probably do with some fun in your life! I imagine working here can be rather...  _consuming_..."

"Okay," Harley agreed with a shrug, then grinned. "It does sound fun."

* * *

When Harley got to Arkham the next morning - Thursday - there was a package waiting for her at reception. A big pink box tied up with a thick satin bow. She carried it back to her office, wondering what Penguin could have sent her now, and for some reason, the image of Walsh's severed head resting on a pillow jumped first and foremost to the front of her mind. She gave the box a shake as she approached her office, but there didn't appear to be anything head-shaped rattling around inside.

Her instincts when it came to unexpected packages, Harley decided, were terrible. She opened the box to find a pool of champagne-colored silk inside, along with a pair of silver high heel sandals and a card from Sofia Falcone's boutique saying they guessed she was a size two from her pictures.

Harley lifted the dress up by the straps, her eyes widening at what had been chosen for her. It was more of a slip than a dress, slinky with thin straps, but undeniably beautiful. She tried to picture what she would look like wearing it and felt a strange little tingle of excitement race across her shoulders. Glamour was as foreign a word to her as gala.

She RSVP'd to the Crowne Society's email and got on with her day. She and Blakely were admitting three new inmates who had been tried together and found criminally insane collectively. Two men and a woman, who Harley would be treating. She wondered if these three could be her new project: collective insanity. Did they find each other or were they forced together?

Admitting a woman reminded Harley how thoroughly male the population of Arkham was. There had never been a D or C wing female patient before. Harley suspected they were sent to maximum security prisons regardless of their mental health. It made her think of Aileen Wuornos, a woman of such poor mental health she surely should have been institutionalized but was instead executed for murdering men in self-defense.

Harley sat across from the rail-thin woman she was admitting, asking the prescribed questions, and trying to bat away feelings of sympathy she felt for a person who had participated in the murder of four people. Participated, being the key word, hence why she was being admitted to Arkham instead of federal prison.

Harley paused the tape recorder and tried to meet the woman's eyes across the table, but she avoided Harley's gaze and hid behind the long, greasy strands of hair falling over her face.

"Are you from the Narrows?" Harley asked gently.

The woman looked up briefly and nodded, then shank back into herself.

Harley bit her lip, knowing precisely what she was dealing with — lost in the system with untreated mental health problems, homeless and abused, forgotten by the world.

"Ms Nunes, I'm going to make sure you get treatment here at Arkham," Harley tried to reassure her. "I'll treat you myself, and we'll see if we can't get your case repealed."

The woman either didn't hear her or didn't think Harley's promises warranted a response. She remained silent, staring into the corner with lifeless eyes.

Empathy could be painful sometimes.

Back in her office, Harley wrote up the admission interview for Ms Nunes and submitted it to Walsh. She sourced a pot of instant noodles from the staff room to have for dinner with another cup of sludgy black coffee. She meant to leave at a reasonable hour to get some training in at the gym, but then the Elliot Pharmaceutical lawyers sent over their proposal for a new drug trial and she found herself engrossed in the details of their research.

Blakely came to check on her on his way out, wearing his coat and frowning about her staying at the asylum so late. "Late even for you," he said, but she waved him off and dug down deep into her work. She needed to be absorbed because if she allowed her mind to wander, it would inevitably go to the well-trodden place where she just wondered aimlessly about what to do with her life, and the only solution she could come up with was to wait for an opportunity to present itself.

Time ticked by and Harley continued to read voraciously. Chavez poked his head in to say that he would be locking the doors and to find him in his office if she needed to be let out. The skeleton crew of night staff was active now, a small team of orderlies and armed guards to keep the peace if necessary. Every 45 minutes, a pair of guards would pass her door, about the length of time it would take to circle the whole asylum.

She was starting a new chapter of the Elliot brief, her chin resting in her palm and her face only a few inches from her computer screen, when a loud humming ran through the ceiling. The lights flickered and her computer shut off, and seconds later, her entire office surrendered to darkness. The lights on the road outside followed, the dim yellow light that normally filled her window at night snapping off, plunging Harley into complete darkness.

She sat back in her chair, waiting out the full minute it should have taken for the asylum's generator to kick in, but it never came. The darkness stretched on, and Harley continued to wait, reassuring herself that the electronic locking mechanisms of the inmates' cells wouldn't automatically unlock because of a lack of power. It would be impossible to open or close the cells without power. The steel bolts would remain in place, and the inmates would remain in their cells, not running free.

And, she reassured herself, if the Narrows was experiencing a blackout, there was no doubt the police would be on their way to Arkham within minutes of getting word of a power outage. She would just wait in her office until they arrived.

She held her hand up to her face, squinting to see it in the dark, but her office was so utterly devoid of light it was impossible. She remembered there was a flashlight in her desk drawer and started to reach for it when there was a loud  _ **POP**_  at the far end of the asylum.

That  _POP_ , she knew in her gut, to be a gunshot, and her breath caught in her throat as different scenarios began playing out in her head. Had the cells opened? Had someone broken into Arkham? Were the guards doing the shooting or was it... someone else?

She realized she was holding her breath and forced out a shaky gust of air, then sucked down a new one. She did this twice, trying to remain calm because she had faced much worse than a break-in. She had faced the Joker, she had...

**_POP POP POP._ **

Three gunshots, close enough that the shooter must have been on the ground floor, maybe only a few hallways over. Harley stood quickly, her chair spinning away as she tried to decide if she should find out what was happening or hide. Investigating appealed to her much more than hiding but she didn't have a weapon and didn't know what was out there. Whatever or  _whoever_  it was, was getting closer, and not knowing what or who made her cherished calm rapidly slip away.

She could hear the guards now too, close enough that their voices were echoing up and down the corridor outside her office. Harley closed her eyes and strained her ears, trying to pick out words from the noise of voices getting louder and louder and then...

 _ **POP**_  - it came from the top of the hallway, not so much a POP but a  ** _BANG_**  that made her hands start to tremble.

She flung open her desk drawer and rooted around for the taser Chavez had given her, but she couldn't find it. Her hands grazed over the flashlight, small and useless for self-defense but she took it anyway. On an impulse, she snatched up the envelope with Penguin's phone then threw herself under her desk.

With her back up against the underside of her desk, she managed to turn on the flashlight with shaking hands. Its pathetically dim beam danced over the wood above her head as she tried to remain calm.

There were soft voices outside her door now - not the guards but someone else. Harley held down the power button of the phone, praying it had some battery life. It turned on with a loud  _BEEP_  that nearly made her groan, then came a second beep and a third as two text messages came through.

_Dr Quinzel (Harley), I thought it would be helpful for us to have a way to communicate :)_

_Don't hesitate to get in touch if you need anything :)_

Harley stared at the two smiley faces, horrified that such stupid texts might draw the attention of whoever was outside her door. She shut her eyes and clutched the phone to her chest to hide the blue light from its screen, praying she would go unnoticed.

But fate didn't seem to be on her side that night. There was an ominous creak as someone pushed open her office door, and the beam of a much more powerful flashlight bounced over the walls and ceiling. The light snapped off abruptly, and a pair of feet shuffled across the threadbare rug covering the floor in front of her desk. Harley squeezed her eyes shut again, telling herself whoever it was needed every second they had at their disposal to escape and surely they wouldn't waste time searching the offices...

And then.

"Aw,  _honey..._  You didn't have to wait up for me."

The Joker's soft voice echoed around the office, making Harley's eyes fly open in alarm.

He liked grand gestures, she thought as she started to panic. Killing her would be a meaningful end to his stay at Arkham.

Harley sensed movement beside her, but she didn't react quickly enough, and a split second later, she was yelping and struggling as the Joker grabbed a handful of her hair and dragged her roughly out from under the desk. Pain raced across her scalp, making her cry out and claw at the fist wrapped in her hair as he forced her to her feet. He pushed her up against the desk with his hips, ignoring her fruitless huffing and gasping as their chests bumped together.

"What do you want," Harley whispered when he didn't say anything.

He lifted his free hand to her throat and pressed his thumb and forefinger to the column of her trachea. The memory of being strangled washed over her, fresh and painful, and Harley felt her pulse bounce against his thumb, letting him know she was scared.

He sighed like he was under duress, and he was so close she felt his breath fan out across her cheek. Then his hand moved from her throat to the back of her neck, holding her firmly in place as his grip on her hair loosened.

Unable to see, Harley's other senses were heightened, all of them focused solely on him. He smelled like tobacco, like he'd taken time to have a cigarette before the breakout, and beneath that was a smell she didn't quite recognize, like fireworks -  _gunpowder,_  maybe. But above all of that was the tangy, metallic smell that she knew to be blood on the sharp fingers currently digging into the skin at the nape of her neck.

"Oh, I just wanted to say goodbye," he finally answered, in a low growl. "But, uh, I gotta say... this is a little  _disappointing_."

He did sound disappointed, like Harley's wiggling and whimpering was a tragic letdown. As his grip on her hair loosened, the pain in her scalp started to recede, helping clear her head, and she used the clarity to fight back. She thrust her knee between them, aiming to kick him in the balls, but he was faster. His hand wrapped around her knee, twisting it out to the side as he wedged his leg between hers. Then he pulled her hair hard, making her whine helplessly as she squirmed against him.

There was a soft  _swick!_  of a knife releasing and then a blade, sharp and cold, was pressed against the corner of her mouth. A vision of having her face cut like his flashed before her mind's eye, making her tremble, the potency of fear making her weak.

" _Hmm,_  not as cocky as you usually are," he mused softly, angling the knife so the point was inside her mouth. "That's what I like so much about you, Harl. You're ballsy as  _hell._  I couldn't  _wait_  to see what you'd do about that orderly. I  _thought_  you might even try to ah...  _punish_  me. But you didn't give a  _shit_  about him, did ya? Nope, it was _all..._  about...  _you_."

Harley inhaled sharply, trying to follow what he was saying. That Burrows had been about her after all. Not to change the course of the events that followed, just to get a reaction out of her for his own entertainment.

"You've been a real  _peach_ , Harl, keeping me company.  _Indulging_ me. That's why I'm thinking..." he pressed the sharp edge of the knife to the corner of her mouth, drawing it out to the side. "You might like something to remember me by..."

"Wait,  _wait,"_  Harley panted, trying to come up with something that would make him stop. "Wait I... have to tell you something."

He paused, humming curiously, and Harley plowed ahead to stall for time.

"Someone called Penguin," she gasped. "He wants to... I think he wants something from you... I don't know what but he wanted me to tell you-"

"Joker!" A gruff voice from the hallway hissed. "Hurry the fuck up!"

The Joker inhaled sharply, annoyed at being interrupted, and Harley waited for what she was sure to be her last breath.

But then he released her and stepped away.

Harley collapsed to her knees, breathing hard and rubbing her head. A few strands of hair came free between her fingers, and she tried to peer down at them but still couldn't see.

"Buh-bye, Harley," the Joker threw over his shoulder, drifting away from her and out the room. "It's been a  _blast_."

She could hear them moving away down the hallway as she scrambled back under her desk, her whole body trembling as she held her hand over her mouth, the ghost of his knife still pressing there.

* * *

**A/N: And thus concludes the Joker's time at Arkham.**

**Next Week: the Joker and Harley might think they're done with each other, but they'd be wrong.**


	6. Chapter 6

The Harlequin

6.

* * *

Gordon took off his glasses off to rub his eyes, which were sore and red from lack of sleep. The first rays of morning sunlight were starting to shine through Dr Quinzel's office window, highlighting her hair in a way that gave her an almost angelic quality, but also intensifying the obvious exhaustion in her face. She was at her desk, recounting to Detective Stephens for the fifth time what had happened during the break-out. She was calm and collected, but clearly dismayed.

Gordon was impressed with her courage. His men had found her under her desk on their second sweep of the asylum, frightened and alone in complete darkness. They couldn't see or do much of anything - including identify the dead - with the power out, so she'd showed them where the generators were kept. That's when they discovered someone had affixed devices emanating small electromagnetic pulses to the generators - just enough to stop them from kicking in if there was a power cut.

And low and behold, almost identical EMP devices were found at the power substation that serviced the east side of the Narrows.

Dr Quinzel stayed out of the way while the technicians worked on removing the devices, her arms wrapped defensively around her stomach and her face solemn. Once they managed to restore power to the asylum - while half the Narrows still lay in darkness - an EMT checked her over, and Gordon offered her a ride home or to the hospital if she needed it. It was nearing 3 AM by that point, but she said no, there was no other senior Arkham staff on site to help them. She needed to stay.

A picture of what had happened was coming together. None of the cells, aside from those in the basement's solitary confinement unit, had opened. Unlike the more sophisticated electronic locking mechanisms of the cells on the upper levels, the solitary cells were unlocked with the same old fashioned brass key. It quickly became clear to Gordon that the Joker only attacked Dr Quinzel so he would be put in solitary with its lower grade security. Lichtenstein and Nash, the other two inmates who had been in solitary, were gone too.

The body of a guard lay beside the elevator on the first floor where the Joker and his new crew would have emerged from the basement. Shot in the neck at close range, he'd have died instantly. Dr Quinzel woodenly identified him as Kelly, one of the two armed guards on night duty. They found three more bodies between the elevator and Dr Quinzel's office: three shot and one with his throat slit. The head of security, Chavez, was found in his office slumped over his desk, shot in the back of the head execution style.

They were still missing a guard named Fogarty. Even as Gordon directed officers to scour the building for the absent guard, he knew in his gut that it was no accident Fogarty wasn't lying dead on the floor beside his partner. When Dr Quinzel confirmed he'd started at Arkham only weeks before the Joker was admitted, Gordon knew Fogarty had been the one to kill Chavez and release the Joker from his cell. Arkham never stood a chance.

Now with the sun rising and the bodies of the dead being carted to the morgue, Harleen Quinzel repeated her story about working late and hiding under her desk when she realized something was wrong. Stephens was pushing her too hard for details, his personal vendetta against the Joker making him overzealous. Blakely, an older doctor who arrived around the same time they started removing the bodies, looked on the verge of telling Stephens to back off. Gordon beat him to it.

"I think we should get you home, Dr Quinzel," Gordon said for probably the fifth time, shooting Stephens a warning look.

"He's right, Harleen," Blakely insisted as he was joined by a woman wearing the pink scrubs of a nurse. "Walsh will be here soon. You need to rest."

"My God," The nurse crossed herself and looked back and forth between Quinzel and Blakely, her face distraught. "There are so many people with cameras outside. GCN, the Gazette, the Globe, the Telegraph - everyone!"

Gordon sighed. It was a miracle they'd made it as long as they had without the press catching wind of the Joker's escape. He only hoped the Mayor would be able to address Gotham before the Joker got a chance.

"Alright," Dr Quinzel agreed wearily. "You're probably right. I should go home."

Blakely rested a palm on her shoulder, and the nurse ran a comforting hand over her hair, and Gordon thought Dr Quinzel was lucky to have colleagues that cared about her. It made the spectra of Arkham seem ridiculous when there were good people within its walls.

But they never stood a chance with the Joker.

* * *

The Iceberg Lounge had been where Carmine liked to have the families meet, back when they showed football on multiple screens and served the best Florentine steak in town. But Maroni ran things now, and the Iceberg had been transformed into a glamorous cash cow that crossed the lines of the underworld and high society. When Maroni brought the heads of Gotham's crime families together, it wasn't a social occasion. It was a war council. They met in the cold, stainless steel kitchens of mob-owned bars and restaurants across the city when the sun was still up. The Batman wouldn't be looking for them at Carluccio's Diner Uptown at noon on a Thursday, that was for damn sure.

That morning Maroni's mistress had interrupted his physical therapy, running in her negligee with her phone clasped in her hand as she gasped about the Joker escaping Arkham. Maroni had been upset enough that he'd treated himself to a 9 AM glass of scotch to clear his head. Then he made two calls. The first to his wife, telling her to take the plane and get out of town immediately. The second to his secretary, telling her to organize a meeting.

Carluccio rearranged the kitchen to Maroni's specifications: the spotless tables set up in a horseshoe so Maroni's lieutenants, trusted advisers, friends and those he put up with for the sake of keeping the peace could face one another. In the Chechen's place sat his fractionally more agreeable brother Yuri, and where Gambol would have been the Penguin now sat, the twitchy little freak. Maroni would have had him whacked and rolled into the harbor in an instant if it weren't for the fact that Penguin had a talent for making money. The Iceberg Lounge turned a massive profit on its own merit under Penguin's management, and that meant more money could be laundered into new banks.

Penguin was annoying, but he wasn't a real problem. If he tried something he'd be dead within days and no one would bat an eyelid. Maroni's real problem was sitting opposite him, examining her talon-like nails and nodding as her idiot husband whispered in her ear. Sofia Falcone was back in Gotham.

After years of living abroad, she'd returned to Gotham with a husband and two young children. She was a fashion designer by trade, something that gave her an exotic air of respectability among Gotham's socialite class, enough to make them forget her father had been the most ruthless gangster Gotham had ever seen. But the socialite exterior was a front that anyone with any common sense could see past. Even her husband, Vito Gigante, was a full-throated Mafioso in the original Sicilian mold. But Gotham wasn't Sicily or Milan.

Maroni drained the last of his espresso and let the cup rattle in its saucer before he looked around the room. His people were panicking, that much was obvious. Frequently tense faces were showing new lines of strain as they muttered to each other nervously. Scared wasn't a good look for a wiseguy, and the whole room stank of fear. It was a disgrace.

"Alright, alright. That's enough of that," Maroni called over the thrum of nervous voices, making eye contact with a few key men, including Sofia. "This ain't right," he told them flatly, his disgust palatable. "This panic? Over that freakshow getting free? Come on. That ain't right."

"Joker killed my brother," Yuri sneered. He looked around at his boys, hulking Russian men wearing leather trench coats and gold chains. "Chopped him up into _tiny_  little pieces. You think we just  _forget_?"

"We don't forget anything, Yuri," Maroni told the Russians drily. "We got enough to worry about without adding the Joker."

"What do you propose?" Sofia spoke up, raising one perfectly penciled eyebrow as she exchanged a look with her husband.

"Simple. We let the Batman deal with him," Maroni countered. "Our more pressing problem is cash. Harvey Dent may be dead, but our good-with-numbers friends he put away are still in the joint."

"Janice Porter is sympathetic to our plight," said Cassamento, a man Carmine had trusted as much as he had Maroni. "Once she's elected DA she'll put a stop to the Dent Act and look at early release for our friends."

"Mrs Porter is no doubt an improvement," Penguin chimed in, his simpering smile bordering on a grimace. "But our acquaintances regaining their freedom won't help us for at least, what, a year? Two years? No, no. They will need to rebuild their businesses from scratch. We need to think  _laterally_."

"Laterally _, pshhh_ ," Yuri scoffed, leaning back in his chair so it balanced on two legs while his boys chuckled amongst each other. "And what you do about it, birdbrain? Open more clubs? You don't think Batman will notice and bust us?"

"Penguin is right," Sofia jumped in again, her heavy-lidded eyes sweeping over the room disdainfully. "We must come up with new solutions. My father built up his network of moneymen, just as Salvatore brought us all together. Together we can build a new network to legitimize our cash flow, and get things back to where they were before Dent  _and_  before the Batman."

"My, my," Penguin leaned forward, his face twitching like he was struggling to control his expression. "For a newcomer to our council - one without a financial stake in our businesses, I might add - it sounds to me like Mrs Gigante may have something up her very fashionable sleeve."

"The Crowne Group," Sofia continued breezily, as if she hadn't heard Penguin. "Their Crowne Towers project is losing money rapidly. We have started discussions to see how we might  _mutually_  benefit from an investment."

Maroni braced his elbows on the table and studied Sofia's face. She wasn't a beautiful woman in a traditional sense, her nose too large and her hooded eyes too close together, but she carried herself like a queen.

"Sofie," he said. "You keep talkin' to Crowne. I want you to talk to Kane and Dumas, and Wayne too. You've got the connections, so you use them."

She smiled a smug, secretive little smile that made Maroni uneasy.

"Good. The next thing we need to talk about is the Chinese gangs." Maroni turned to the Russians next, narrowing his eyes. "Yuri, I want you to make nice with them. Stop killin' their boys and get a deal back on the table."

"Tell the Chinese to stop raiding our fuckin' shipments," Yuri countered bitterly. "Then we stop killing them."

"Get the deal back on the table," Maroni repeated, disinterested in the specifics of their petty drug war. He inclined his head towards Cassamento. "Santo, you let Ling know we want things to be civil again. Yuri will follow the rules."

Yuri scowled, and his boys muttered to each other.

"And what about the Irish, they do nothing but kill each other," the Russian sneered.

Maroni gazed down the table at the head of the Irish Family. Mickey Sullivan, a weathered man with bright red hair tucked under a flat cap and splotchy tattoos running up and down both lean, freckled arms. The Irishman puffed out his chest and glared at the Russians but otherwise kept his mouth closed.

"That's different," Maroni said for Sullivan. "They got disloyal members of their family; they deal with them the best way they know how. I wouldn't expect anything less from you if your boys tried something." He nodded at the line of thugs behind Yuri and the Russian scowled again, muttering darkly in his mother tongue.

Maroni called an end to the meeting, knowing for sure that his coalition had a lot of work to do before they got back to where they were before Dent and the Batman. He watched his proxies file out, aside from Franco Bertinelli, who drew a cigarillo from the inside pocket of his suit jacket before meeting Maroni's eye.

"Sal... boss..." he said respectfully. Bertinelli was Maroni's oldest friend. The best man at his wedding. His son's godfather. "You sure it's smart to leave the Joker to the Batman? Last time we said the clown wasn't the problem well..." He gestured to the wheelchair Maroni was forced to use on days when his legs were too stiff.

Maroni remembered that day all too vividly. Dent going crazy and shooting his driver. The accident that followed. Maroni hadn't told a living soul what really happened, not even his priest or his wife. Dent was the good guy who got killed by the Batman as far as the world was concerned, but the truth was the Bat had broken his cherished  _rules_  to take Dent out. If the Bat would break his rules for Dent, he'd almost certainly break them for the Joker too. The clown was too dangerous to be left alive, and it seemed to Maroni that the Batman had finally wised up to this fact, with no time to spare.

Hell, maybe he'd take care of Penguin too.

"Last time we made the mistake of partnering up with the Joker," Maroni told his old friend. "This time, we let the Bat take care of him, and we stay out of his way."

Bertinelli clapped a hand on Maroni's shoulder, a gesture of solidarity and trust, of old friendship.

"If you say so, boss."

* * *

When Harley woke up, the sun appeared to be rising instead of setting, and she realized she'd slept for nearly a full twenty-four hours. She sat up in bed, bleary-eyed and groggy, the image of Chavez's body slumped over his desk with blood dripping onto the carpet foremost in her mind. It had been up to her to identify the bodies because she happened to be present and alive. The  _only_ one left alive.

It had been rattling, seeing the lifeless bodies of people she knew and spoke to every day.

It was efficient, she guessed. Killing whoever crossed their path.

Everyone but her.

She wasn't surprised that the Joker would be so ruthless, but there had always been something almost  _respectful_ about how he treated her during their sessions, which she now realized had all been an act. She had been stupid to think he was as harmless as a kitten because of a pair of handkerchief and some armed guards roaming the hall. Naive wasn't a word she would typically use to describe herself, but in this case, she'd woefully underestimated him. He'd lulled her into a false sense of security.

Harley climbed out of bed and wandered into the living room. Her apartment was still a mess, but she'd grown used to it. She sat on her destroyed sofa and opened the Gotham Globe's homepage on her new laptop, unsurprised to find the Joker's painted face staring back at her beneath a headline frantically detailing his escape. Gordon had managed to keep her presence at the asylum during the break out under wraps so far, pushing cameras and microphones out of her face as he and a patrolman herded her through the crowd of media outside Arkham's gate.

_"Dr Quinzel arrived at Arkham Asylum early this morning to help us determine what happened here. The Mayor will issue a statement shortly."_

The Mayor's statement did little more than advise people to remain calm and reassure the city that there was a manhunt underway. Gordon gave a press conference later that afternoon, requesting any tips on the Joker's location be sent to a special phone line the GCPD set up. He also recommended people remain calm. Meanwhile, members of the Kane and Dumas families - most of whom were stars from  _Made in the Diamond District_  or  _Real Housewives of Gotham_  - appeared on GCN saying they intended to remain in Gotham, implying solidarity with the more impoverished citizens who would inevitably be the casualties of whatever the Joker had planned.

Harley's thoughts returned to the knife pressed against her mouth. How it had only been the fact that the Joker was short on time that she was still alive, or at least still in one piece. She knew if she told Gordon about what had happened in her office, he would have offered her police protection but she didn't particularly want that and suspected she didn't need it either. It was hard to envision the Joker coming after her now. Stuck in Arkham, he only had Harley and the orderlies to keep him entertained. Now he had all of Gotham at his disposal. It wasn't like she was  _unique_  to him.

She sat back from her laptop and pulled Penguin's burner phone from her bag, typing out a quick message.

_Your new friend is out. He got your message._

It was a little misleading. All she'd done was stutter Penguin's name in a panicked attempted to stop the Joker from slicing her face open, but Penguin didn't need to know that. With the Joker out of Arkham, Penguin wouldn't need to go through her any more. There were probably bad-guy channels they could connect through. She'd been removed from the equation.

The question of what she was supposed to do next nagged and frustrated her as the repetitive days and weeks ahead loomed before her.

Then the box on her kitchen counter caught her eye. It was the dress Sofia Falcone's boutique sent for the party she'd nearly forgotten about.

Harley could wallow in her apartment, or she could try something new and see where it took her.

Carefully, she lifted the box's lid to reveal the puddle of champagne-colored silk inside, and ran her fingers over the fabric.

Three months ago, she would have wholly rejected wearing something so luxurious. Harleen Quinzel, the shrewish psychologist with her pale lips and tight buns. With her sensible shoes and her rational decisions.

She didn't want to think about the Joker, or Penguin, or what she was supposed to do with her life when all she could see in front of her was day after day after day at Arkham.

She wanted more than that.

It was time that she had a little fun of her own.

* * *

The bathroom at the warehouse came with a pile of broken porcelain and puddles of murky water that stank of shit. Where the sink used to be, there were only sawn-off pipes sticking out of the wall, and above that a cracked mirror. The Joker peered at his reflection, twisting his head from side to side to make sure he hadn't missed a spot from the quick shave he'd had the night before. Good enough, he decided, pulling back from the mirror and tugging at the sleeves of his jacket.

The new suit didn't fit right. He'd lost weight in Arkham. Not too much, but just enough for the violet pants to sit low on his hips and for the waistcoat to feel too roomy. He yanked on the jacket sleeves again, trying to cover his bony wrists as he muttered about the slop they called food at Arkham.

The Joker and his escape buddies' first stop had been a safe house outside the city where they watched the news of their escape unfold and got a real meal. Then came a second house in the University district where no one would ever think to look for the Joker. That was when things started to be put in motion. He ditched the two idiots from Arkham - they would reappear again he was sure - and got to work. Calls were made, instructions were given, threads were laid so they could be pulled later.

Finally, his suit arrived - and just in the nick of time - so he could finally change out of the blood-stained Arkham jumpsuit, which was starting to smell a little  _ripe_.

He shrugged on the suit's overcoat, bouncing his shoulders until it fell into place, then pulled a brown paper bag containing three pots of grease paint from the inner pocket. Slowly, a little out of practice, he took a handful of white paint and rubbed it between his palms before lifting his hands to his face. He paused, meeting his own gaze in the mirror, then smeared the paint across his brow and down each cheek. He filled in the gaps; across the nose, ear to ear and up to his hairline, then used two fingers to paint on the red and black until the Joker was staring back at him with vacant black eyes and a cruel red mouth.

Aww. He felt a little nostalgic suddenly. That always happened when you played the long game.

Next, he took a can of green spray-on hair dye called  _Frankenstein Green_  and sprayed it over his hair haphazardly. When it was done, he checked himself in the mirror one last time and hummed his approval.  _That's more like it_.

Unexpectedly, the very entertaining Dr Quinzel sprang to mind, and two scenarios played out in his mind's eye simultaneously. One where she screamed and ran away from him. A second where she raised an unimpressed eyebrow. In the end, she'd gravitated toward the first. Without a table between them to keep her feeling safe, she'd flipped into the nervous little thing he found hiding under her desk. Disappointing in the end, but he would still remember her fondly for keeping him amused and sane.

He shook out his cuffs again, pushing Dr Quinzel to the back of his mind. He could ruminate on her later — a little puzzle to work through when he got bored.

Tonight was only a dress rehearsal, but the Joker still loved a show.

* * *

Harley had been to the Natural History Museum a handful of times since she moved to Gotham and always left feeling like she'd spent hours trying to navigate a maze. Unlike most of Midtown's Art Deco structures, the Natural History Museum was a Neoclassical behemoth of columns and flying buttresses, its old-world grandeur at odds with earth-bound exhibitions.

The 'Earth's Treasures' gallery housed a permanent exhibition of precious stones, all of which were glittering and on display tonight. There were gems from private collections too, their geological histories laid out in pamphlets beneath backlit cases. Lavish wealth tempered by educational materials, Harley observed wryly as she looked around the tall, circular gallery that had been transformed into the kind of party she didn't feel like she belonged at.

But that was the point, the reason she was there. To do something  _different_.

The party guests almost certainly weren't there to learn. The women, old and young, wore slinky gowns with jewels dripping from their ears and necks. The men wore tuxedos and eerily similar expressions of practiced smugness. A grand piano stood open on one side of the room, another shiny tuxedoed man grinning as he performed for his masters who danced around him.

Harley picked out a few faces she recognized from  _Made in the Diamond District_  and  _the Real Housewives of Gotham,_ but she couldn't see Marie Kane, the only real face she knew. She scouted the exits just in case she needed to make a quick escape, all of which were patrolled by security to guard the wealthy guests and their precious stones. There were three exits in total, one leading to a 'Meteorites Gallery,' another to 'Entomology Collections' and a third to the main door. Between them were long tables staffed by young men in white catering jackets serving drinks, and Harley quickly moved toward the closest of these.

"Champagne, ma'am?" the bartender asked, his smile strangely brittle.

"Yeah," she agreed, peering over her shoulder at a group of people shrieking ' _hellos!'_  and ' _so good to see yous!'_  as more guests arrived.

"Soda water, please," a deep, tired voice requested as Harley lifted the champagne flute to her lips. She glanced sideways at the person ordering water and nearly choked.

Standing there casually drinking soda from a crystal cut glass was none other than notorious playboy billionaire Bruce Wayne. He noticed her staring, and Harley was surprised to see his expression briefly darken before shifting into the same practiced smugness of his contemporaries. He lifted one lascivious eyebrow and made a show of examining her dress over the rim of his glass before finally meeting her gaze.

"Dr Harleen Quinzel," he smirked, propping one elbow up on the bar as he held out a large hand for her to shake. "Bruce Wayne."

Feeling repelled, Harley took his hand and gave it a quick squeeze. "Nice to meet you," she said coldly.

"Don't take this the wrong way," he drawled, shooting her a curious look that still managed to come off as smarmy. "But I would  _not_  have expected the Crowne Society to be  _your_  kind of crowd."

"You mean you expected me to be more friendly with the  _poor_  kind of crowd?" Harley countered flatly.

Wayne chuckled, a crooked smirk firmly in pace as he leaned toward her with an entitled grace that came from years of women throwing themselves at him.

"You're funny," he informed her, holding her gaze almost too intensely though his cocky smirk lightened the effect.

"So I've been told," Harley said, thinking about the Joker. She swallowed a mouthful of champagne and quickly scanned the room to see if Marie or even Bertrum Crowne had arrived so she could thank them. They hadn't.

"Seriously," Wayne pressed, lifting the glass of soda to his lips and eyeing her over the rim. "What brings you here tonight?"

"I don't know," Harley admitted after a pause. "They invited me."

She glanced up at his face and was surprised to find him studying her with a frown that he quickly covered by letting his gaze drift down her dress again, lingering on the swell of her breasts beneath the cream silk. Harley was small enough that she occasionally went braless like she had tonight, but with Wayne staring, she was starting to regret it.

"That dress is..." he laughed softly and offered her a smirk. " _Yikes_."

Harley's lips pursed sourly, annoyed that the only person she'd found to talk to so far was a privileged idiot who couldn't stop staring at her chest.

"It's a Sofia Falcone dress," she said distractedly, looking around the room again but knowing it was futile.

"Waiting for someone?" Wayne pushed, refusing to be ignored.

Harley drained the last of her champagne but resisted the urge to order another. Instead, she set her glass down on the bar top and turned her eyes up to Wayne.

"Bertrum Crowne," she informed him boldly. "I should thank him for inviting me."

"Yeah," Wayne agreed slowly, like he was wondering  _why_  Bertrum Crowne had invited her in the first place, then took another sip of his soda water. Harley contemplated telling him,  _well, I've just delivered falsified data to his wife's best friend's company, and this is their way of thanking me._  "Want to know why I'm here?" He asked, sounding tired.

"Looking for a rich wife?" Harley quipped. Wayne laughed, and it sounded genuine this time.

"No," Wayne ran a hand through his hair and set his glass down on the bar. "But I'll tell you what, Dr Quinzel... my butler would love it if I did."

"Call me..." She almost said 'Harley,' but caught herself at the last minute. "... Harleen," she corrected.

"Wanna dance, Harleen?" He held out his hand again, his earlier smug pretense replaced with an affability Harley found far more tolerable.

"Why not," she agreed with a shrug and followed him toward the group of dancing couples. "I should warn you; I don't really dance."

"You're in good company then," Wayne snorted, taking one of her hands in his and resting the other on her hip. "I had lessons as a kid but uh, I don't really enjoy it."

"So why are you here? If you don't like dancing or..." Harley trailed off as they swayed together.

"Or don't like these people?" He filled in for her, lifting an eyebrow.

Harley laughed more loudly than she meant to, earning herself a strange look from Wayne.

"I've known most of these people my whole life," he explained, eyeing her carefully. "You could call them my friends, but I don't think they know what friendship really is."

"Have you ever watched  _Made in the Diamond District_? Harley asked, hoping to lighten the mood though she noted he still hadn' _t_  told her why he was there. When Wayne confirmed that he had not, she pointed out a handful of people she'd spotted from the show, and Wayne shook his head in disbelief as she described their current storylines.

"Wait, they just... close the bedroom door, and you're supposed to assume...?"

"Oh yeah," Harley nodded enthusiastically. She'd caught him up on the events of the first and second seasons as they swayed through three songs. "That's their go-to move. Ivania is with Bobby Kane right now, but in the first season she was the queen of the closed door."

"Ivania Dumas was my first kiss," Wayne replied, looking conflicted and Harley laughed again, pleased that she'd managed to claw through Wayne's smarmy playboy charade. It was sad that he thought he had to act like a prick to be accepted by the trust fund brigade, but Harley wasn't sure that was entirely the reason for the farce. She couldn't  _quite_  put her finger on what exactly it was about him...

"So," he said when the third song started up, and Harley could already tell what was coming. "The Joker..."

"Scary isn't it," she replied mildly.

"That's he's out?" Wayne frowned like he didn't understand her flippancy. "Yeah. Really scary."

"That's what he wants," Harley pointed out tiredly. She was bored with explaining what the Joker wanted.

Wayne frowned that thoughtful, serious frown of his, turning the full weight of it on Harley like she was a puzzle he couldn't work out. Why did men always look at her like that? But before he could question her further a hand clapped down on his shoulder.

"Bruce! Long time no see, my boy," Bertrum Crowne guffawed, slapping Wayne on the back and pumping his hand until he noticed Harley, flashing her an aging playboy grin that made his weak chin wiggle. "Ah, I should have known!" He ribbed Wayne, throwing an elbow into his side. "So you're the one who's been filling up Dr Quinzel's dance card!"

In an instant, Wayne was once again the smug, spoiled asshole, waggling his eyebrows and smirking lazily.

"Good to see you, Bertie," he drawled, slapping the older man on the back a little harder than necessary. "How's the tower project going? Sell any more of those penthouses?"

"Just closed 45 million for the top two floors - five mil over our asking price!" Crowne bragged as he turned to Harley, beaming as he shook her hand. "Dr Quinzel, thank you so much for coming to our little party."

"Little?" Harley joked awkwardly, drawing more boorish laughter from Wayne and Crowne.

"Lulu does like to put on a party," Crowne chuckled, waving at his wife who had her arm linked arms with Marie Kane at the bar. "Oh look, there she is now - let's get a drink!"

Wayne ran a disgruntled hand through his hair as he and Harley trailed after Crowne, and she got the distinct impression that he was especially  _not_  fond of the Crownes, even if he plastered on a cringe-worthy smirk whenever faced with one of them. When they reached the wives, he was all dashing charm and simpering grins again, spouting well-worn cliches that had Lulu and Marie losing their minds in their cocktails.

Harley joined in, pretending to laugh and gasp and admonish. Extended family and friends and colleagues joined and left their group, more often than not taking no notice of Harley. A younger member of the Kane clan told them a story that involved twenty cases of champagne being delivered to his yacht instead of twenty cases of water, thereby leaving his party with only champagne to drink over a long weekend. The group was in stitches of laughter, and Harley laughed along with them like she'd never heard something so funny in all her life.

At one stage Marie flagged down the statuesque woman from the Ritz who turned out to be Sofia Falcone, designer of Harley's dress. Tonight she had her fat husband Vito Gigante in tow and was wearing a Grecian gown that showed off an impressive set of lean biceps.

"You look beautiful, Dr Quinzel," Sofia purred at Harley, adjusting one of the dress's straps for her. "I do so love to see my clothes worn by beautiful women."

On one level, Harley hated all of it, but she also enjoyed the duplicity of playing along. It would be a stretch to say she was having fun, but her curiosity about Gotham's most elite citizens had been suitably satisfied. They were vain, stupid people with more money than sense. Some of them, like Marie, were more kind than others, and Harley was sure there were more like Wayne, forced to pretend to be assholes in a world of assholes. Mostly, they were pointless people, taking up necessary oxygen from the rest of humanity.

A woman wearing a black cocktail dress tapped Crowne on the shoulder and muttered something in his ear. He nodded and waved her off, turning back to their group.

"You'll have to excuse us. Lulu and I have to give speeches now if you can believe it. We're donating this old sapphire that's been in the family for years." He made a face like it was a massive imposition on his evening, and the rest of their group made sympathetic sounds.

Crowne shifted through the crowd of guests, following the assistant in the black dress over to a podium near the piano where his wife was waiting for him. A woman from the museum introduced them, praising their donations and their dedication to science and charity. Then Lulu Crowne took over the mic to explain the Crowne Society's devotion to stopping the blood diamond trade, an argument that rang false considering the diamonds around her neck were almost certainly from conflict zones.

Wayne stuck around as Lulu began telling the story of the Crowne family immigrating from Hungary and helping found Gotham with its other famous families. As she spoke about the family's connections to the Maharajas of India - supposedly the origin of the most magnificent jewels in their collection - a pair of security guards carried in a glass box and set it atop the podium beside Lulu. Even from where she stood some fifty feet away, Harley could see the sapphire sparkling blue beneath the thick-plate glass protecting it.

Lulu was finally getting around to the purpose of the donation - education, not the fact that the 'Earth's Treasures' wing would be renamed after the family - and she appeared to be on the verge of introducing her husband when a high-pitched, electronic screech rang through the room. The guests groaned collectively while the tuxedo-clad security manning the doors winced and scratched out their earpieces.

Her ears ringing, Harley looked around at the guests complaining to one another as they rubbed their ears. Then she looked to the security team signaling frantically to each other as they tapped their ears and shook their heads 'no.' Their radios had cut out, Harley realized, a divine sense of unease rolling through her.

Amid the nervous chatter, a woman gasped then another screamed. Unable to see what was happening, the guests began to panic, nudging and bumping up against one another, stepping on their neighbors' feet and pushing each other away as they worried loudly about who had screamed and what was happening. Harley scouted the crowd, trying to determine for herself what was going on when she spotted the bartender who had served her striding toward the two guards covering the Meteorite Gallery exit.

She felt like she was watching a car crash in slow motion. The waiter's face was cold and determined as he drew closer to the guards at the exit. He pulled a gun from the back of his pants, took aim at the guard closest to him, and shot him in the head. A second waiter appeared behind the remaining guard; a shotgun wedged under his armpit. He pulled the trigger, shooting the other guard in the back, the force of the gunshot making the waiter rock back on his heels.

Panic flared around the room like a match thrown in kerosene. The screaming was nearly deafening as guests scrambled desperately for the exits, only to be buoyed back when more waiters armed with shotguns and pistols blocked their way. The screaming intensified when a third guard was shot, and all around the room, the sound of guns loading fought for dominance over the panicked shouting of the guests. And suddenly it became apparent that  _all_  the waiters were armed and moving in.

Harley felt like her feet were glued to the floor as she watched the scene unfolding around her, her eyes frantically sweeping the room for her means of escape when she saw something that made her breath catch. One by one, the waiters had started tugging on rubber clown masks, obscuring their faces and making their purpose there all to clear to anyone paying attention.

The clowns started taking hostages then - one snatched the pianist and wedged a gun under his chin while two others grabbed Bertrum Crowne from behind the podium and forced him to his knees. Ivania Dumas screamed as she was ripped away from her boyfriend and an older woman wearing a tiara swooned when a clown seized her around the waist and pressed a gun to her cheek.

_"Shut up, and no one gets hurt!"_

_"Get on the ground! Get on the fucking ground!"_

_"Stay quiet and get down or you're all fucking dead!"_

The screams of the crowd subsided to quiet gasps as the clowns took control of the room, the futility of escape becoming more and more apparent. Harley eyed the people standing beside her, their eyes uniformly wide and anxious, their lips parted but too fearful to speak as they clutched their pearls and their partners. Harley noted that Wayne had disappeared, but he was only a blip on her radar now that she was trapped in a room full of murdering clowns.

The jarring opening notes of 'Chopsticks' slammed out of the piano and Harley's eyes closed, knowing precisely what was coming as the rest of the room collectively swiveled in the direction of the piano. It wasn't clear when the Joker had slipped into the room, but there was no mistaking the purple figure hunched over the piano, poking experimentally at the keys. His back straightened and he rocked his head from side to side, like he was preparing for a dramatic monologue, then slowly he turned to face his silent prisoners, feigning surprise that he was the focus of their attention.

A few people gasped when they saw his face. It was sloppily painted into something vaguely resembling a clown, and so much more unsettling in real life than any photo could convey. Just a few slicks of paint completely transformed the youthful face Harley had gotten to know into something truly horrifying, and for the first time, she understood why people thought he was insane. Not because of what he did, but because he made himself look like a madman.

She watched him slink away from the piano with a strange, loping grace she'd never noticed in him before because she'd never seen him walk with a full range of movement before. She was hit with that same sense that all of the oxygen had been sucked out of the room by his very presence, just as she had had that first day when he arrived at Arkham and the day he had attacked her. She had been unable to look away from him those times too.

The Joker slung a shotgun over his shoulder as he strolled in a zig-zag toward Crowne, who was still kneeling between two clowns holding fistfuls of his tuxedo jacket.

"This is  _some_  party, Bertie," the Joker drawled, wagging the barrel of the shotgun at Crowne to indicate his clowns should pull him up. When they were eye level, he lurched at Crowne, their noses almost touching as the Joker twisted his head to the side, squinting out of the corner of one black eye. "I guess my invitation got lost in the mail,  _huh_?"

"What do you want, Joker," Crowne hissed, his face turning bright red as the Joker examined him.

The sound of glass shattering made a few women shriek, and the Joker glanced over his shoulder where two of his clowns were in the process of stealing the Crowne Sapphire.

"Oh,  _you_  know," he turned back to Crowne, giving the older man's cheek a firm pat with a gloved hand. "Felt like I needed a little more ahh...  _sparkle_  in my life."

He spun away from Crowne like he'd abruptly lost interest in him, and in a few quick steps, he was looming over Lulu Crowne. She was visibly trembling and released a little cry of terror when the Joker hooked a finger under her diamond and emerald necklace, inspecting it then dropping it with an unimpressed huff. Then he moved on to a younger couple, a pair of beautiful people. The girl's face was red and tear-streaked, her pretty makeup running down her cheeks.

"Aw, come on," the Joker complained to them, spreading his arms wide. "I thought this was a party!"

The girl let out a sob, turning her face into her boyfriend's shoulder and the Joker rolled his eyes and moved on again, taunting and prodding one section of the crowd before moving on to the next.

Harley realized he was moving _toward_  her section of the room, and her heart began to thud noisily in her ears, growing worse with every step he took in her direction. Feeling herself start to panic, she shifted to her right so she was partially hidden behind the man in front of her but could still see what was happening.

The Joker had stopped again only a handful of people away from her. Harley turned her head away, trying to control her breathing as her hair fell in a curtain across her face. Anticipation was spreading through her the closer he got, and she started to feel light-headed, though whether she was terrified or excited, she couldn't say.

 _"Oooooooh,"_  the Joker feigned a shudder, his voice so close Harley could practically feel it vibrating against her skin. "If it isn't  _Sofia_  Falcone," he purred, his tone shifting from mocking to something much more sinister, almost  _resentful._

Harley closed her eyes, willing herself not to look no matter how badly she wanted to.

"Joker," Sofia Falcone replied, her voice thick with disdain.

He giggled gleefully, a shrill sound that made the man in front of Harley tremble, and this time, Harley couldn't stop herself. She tipped her head to the side, just enough to see the Joker leveling Sofia Falcone with a nasty smile.

"Oh Sofie, Sofie,  _Sofie_..." He prodded her well-toned arm with the barrel of his shotgun, prompting her fat husband to dive forward.

He shouted something in Italian and tried to throw a punch, but the Joker moved faster, ducking the punch and looping his arm around Vito's neck so he was forced to arch backward, choking as the Joker's forearm pressed against his throat.

"Guess you never fully worked out those  _Daddy_  issues, huh," the Joker sneered at Sofia, tightening his grip on her husband. "Come here, Vito, listen up... do ya wanna know how I got these scars?"

Harley could see others in the crowd looking like they wanted to step in, shooting their neighbors meaningful looks and puffing out their chests. The clowns had finished collecting the precious stones from the gallery and were waiting for instructions while their boss tormented Sofia Falcone's husband.

A pair of middle-aged men stepped out from the crowd, grim-faced and exuding the kind of idiotic bravery that always got people killed in movies. Before they could act a gun went off, and from where Harley stood she could see that the pianist had been shot in the stomach, effectively sending the would-be heroes stumbling back into the safety of the crowd. The pianist collapsed on the floor, clutching his stomach as blood pooled around him, and a girl started to cry.

The Joker rolled his eyes away from the Falcones, looking annoyed as he prepared to deliver biting words...

Then he saw her.

Their eyes met across the room, and Harley's stomach lurched painfully, goosebumps erupting over her back and arms.

He didn't react at first, he just stared at her through the bodies between them, and the sounds of the room faded to white noise for Harley. The murmurs of the crowd, the crying girl, the whimpering of the dying pianist. It all crashed together into nothing. Her head was swimming with different scenarios, trying to find a way out, trying to decide what was about to happen to her and what she needed to do to stop it.

Sofia Falcone rushed to catch her husband when the Joker released him, his attention entirely on Harley, and the people between them quickly jumped out of the way as he started toward her. He was grinning now, sly and crooked, and she could see his jaw working, getting ready to dramatize their reunion.

Then he stopped, his expression morphing into a scowl, and an inhuman growl ripped out of his throat just before his feet flew out from under him. He landed hard on his stomach, and then he was being dragged back across the marble floor on his belly, his arms and legs flailing as he gnashed his teeth, his coat flapping around him.

Harley's brain took longer than usual to accept what her eyes were seeing. A grappling hook was attached to the back of the Joker's overcoat, and a length of coil stretched across the floor where the Batman stood in the center of the room, reeling the Joker in like a fish. She was at once relieved and dismayed and again looked around to see how others were reacting - mostly shock - before she stubbornly pushed through them so she could see what was happening from the edge of the crowd.

The Batman pressed a lever on his forearm, detaching the grappling cable, and the Joker immediately jumped to his feet, spitting and snarling.

"Oh  _you_ ," he growled, his body tensing for a fight. "I was  _hoping_  you'd show up."

They lashed out at each other at the same moment, the Batman easily overpowering the Joker, grabbing him by the lapel and slamming one huge black fist into his face. The Joker recovered quickly, wheezing out a laugh so manic the Batman hesitated before punching him again, this time with a frustrated grunt like he was trying to silence him for good.

It didn't work, the laughter continued, ear-piercingly shrill and only outmatched by a sudden feminine wail of terror.

"Let him go, Bat!"

One of the clowns had dragged Ivania Dumas into the middle of the room; his hand wrapped in her radiant blonde hair as he pressed a sawn-off shotgun to her ear. She was on her knees, screaming mindlessly as she tried to escape the clown.

The Batman immediately released the Joker, letting him stagger back as three clowns immediately set upon the Batman, raining down punches and kicks until he was on his knees, weakly holding an arm up to shield his face but otherwise giving up when faced with a hostage.

The Joker wiped his mouth and checked his glove for blood before returning his attention to the Batman. He snatched up a discarded shotgun off the floor and moved in. One of his clowns had stupidly placed himself between his boss and the Batman, and without hesitating, the Joker swung the shotgun like a club, smacking the clown in the side of the head to effectively clear his path.

The Batman shook off the two remaining clowns and planted his foot, preparing to rise and retaliate, but the Joker swooped in first, swinging the shotgun at his head and sending the Batman careening to the floor. The Joker followed him down, grunting savagely with each swing - one, two, three - until the Batman collapsed again.

Whooping with laughter, the Joker pulled himself upright and hopped from one foot to the other, watching gleefully as the Batman struggled to get up. Then he calmed quickly, shaking out his shoulders and raking his hair off his forehead as he pulled a gold pocket watch from his waistcoat and consulted it with a sniff.

 _"Boys!"_  He barked, and the clowns jumped to attention, sending confusion rippling through the crowd.

Harley watched the Batman struggle to push himself up to his knees, and she felt a wave of disappointment that he was so  _weak_. The Joker dropped into a squat beside him and put his head close to the Batman's, muttering something only they could hear before straightening back up, complacency dancing on his lips as he whirled around to find Harley.

Their eyes met again, and she could tell then he had never lost sight of her. He started for her, stomping through the chaos of the clowns and the scattering crowd, and Harley didn't make a move to run or get out of his way. She just stood frozen to the floor, stupidly waiting for him to reach her.

His hand closed around her forearm, and she looked up at his face, mesmerized by the difference between what she saw now and what she knew was beneath the warpaint. But he wasn't paying attention to her, he was signaling his clowns and checking his pocket watch, and before she could ask what he was going to do, he'd yanked her into the now familiar position of her back against his chest, holding his knife against her throat.

Some of the guests watched him drag her away with wide, shocked eyes, but most were focused on Ivania Dumas, who was screaming bloody murder as a band of clowns hurried her out the main entrance with the Batman on their heels. A second hostage was being carted out through the Meteor exit - the old woman wearing a tiara - and making far less of a spectacle, apparently leading the Batman to deign her less important than Ivania.

 _"Move_ ," the Joker hissed in Harley's ear, his breath hot against the side of her neck.

The sensation made her scalp prickle distractingly, but the Joker was unrelenting, forcing her to stagger backward, her heels snagging on the carpet. Two clowns followed close behind them; their, their guns pointed at Harley as they rushed out of the gallery and into a dark, neighboring room. That was when it hit her that she was his hostage. This wasn't about Arkham or what had happened in her office. She was a tool for escape.

Which meant that maybe if she played along, she would be released once they left the building.

So she moved as fast as she could, stumbling with the Joker and his clowns in the dark, half terrified and half curious to find out how he would get out of this when the police were almost certainly waiting for him right outside.

He released her so suddenly she nearly fell on her ass without him to hold her up, but then his hand closed around her wrist again, whipping her around and almost ripping her arm out of socket to get her moving. She was still his prisoner, his grip on her arm painfully tight as she ran along behind him, but somehow, she didn't feel quite so...  _stolen_  as she had a moment earlier.

They dashed through room after room of strange, natural oddities: moths and beetles, birds and reptiles, and panels showing human evolution. Harley was only just keeping up with the Joker, who hadn't turned to look at her once. They finally stopped in a room with a model of a blue whale hanging from the ceiling, the room's only light source a backlit podium displaying the creature's story. There was a door with a 'STAFF ONLY' sign, and one of the clowns threw his shoulder into it, bursting into a concrete and plaster stairwell on the other side.

It only occurred to Harley then how well-planned the entire operation was. The museum was a maze, but they navigated it perfectly. The Joker's henchmen had replaced the whole catering staff, and they had infiltrated the museum with not-so-easy-to-hide shotguns despite an overwhelming security presence. The Joker had been free for less than forty-eight hours, but somehow, he'd put together a thoroughly successful heist and hostage situation, and seemed to be on the verge of escaping worry free.

The clowns flew down the stairs, one even sliding down the railing. Harley managed about four steps before her heeled sandal caught and she fell, grabbing the railing with her free arm to stop herself tumbling to the bottom.

The Joker spun around to glare at her for wasting time, his eyes darting down to her shoes then up to her face. He licked his bottom lip, judging the situation, and Harley braced herself for being thrown down the stairs, the easiest way for him to get her where he needed her.

Instead, he ducked down and slung an arm around her hips, roughly hauling her up over his shoulder.

Harley shrieked in surprise as her world literally turned upside down, blood rushing to her head as her arms flailed wildly. The Joker's hand inched up to her ass to get a better grip on her and Harley instinctively swatted him away, making him chuckle when he realized what she was doing. She huffed in frustration, feeling light-headed, and sick. But then the stairs ended, and another door banged open, and cold autumn air was stinging her bare skin as they darted out into the night.

A car, or maybe a van's engine started, and she could hear two doors swing open. She tried to look around, craning her neck to the side, but all she could see were dumpsters in a dark alleyway.

"Wait, wait!" She started to protest, when she felt the Joker shift beneath her, getting ready to offload her.

Harley shrieked again when he tossed her, like a sack of potatoes instead of a human being, and she landed hard on her ass with a yelp of pain. A quick look around told her she'd been chucked in the back of a utility van, and she knew immediately that a bruised tailbone was the least of her worries.

"Let's get the fuck outta here," the Joker snapped roughly, and the clowns obediently hopped into the van, stomping past Harley.

Sensing they would step on her if she didn't move fast, Harley crab-walked backward on her elbows, her movements desperate and jerky. She'd only just managed to get out of the way when the Joker pulled himself into the van, slamming the doors shut behind him.

He loped past her without sparing her a passing glance and ducked his head over the back of the driver's seat to bark an order. The engine revved, and the van pulled away from the museum, and Harley started to panic all over again. They were taking her  _with_  them.

The three clowns who had joined them in the van sat across from her on the floor, staring at her from behind their masks as she put her back to the wall and stared back at them. One of the clowns got to his feet, using the roof of the van to steady himself as he fished inside his catering jacket for a plastic bag of zip ties. The concept of being tied up by a clown threw Harley into a frenzy. With her back pressed up against the wall, she screeched an unconvincing protest and kicked out at him, her heel catching his shin hard enough to make him yelp and trip as the van went careening around a corner.

She kicked out again before the clown could steady himself, her stiletto connecting with his knee cap this time. He sputtered a curse and pulled a revolver from a holster beneath his catering jacket, aiming at Harley's head as he pulled back the hammer.

Harley closed her eyes and pressed herself back into the wall of the van, waiting for the sound of a gunshot.

But instead of a gunshot, all she heard was a horrible, watery choking.

She opened her eyes and almost shouted in surprise, but she felt like she'd lost the capacity to speak.

The Joker stood behind the clown, one gloved fist holding a handful of its catering jacket, the other holding a slim blade that looked like a paring knife out to the side. The clown's throat had been slit and blood was pouring down his chest, staining the white jacket scarlet. He was twitching and choking, and beneath the clown mask, his eyes must have been wide and afraid.

The choking worsened, and the blood gushed harder, and when the van took a sharp corner, the Joker released the clown's jacket. He fell to his knees before pitching forward, landing mask-first in Harley's lap.

She screamed, a blood curdling, horror movie scream, feeling the clown's blood spurting in time with his slowing heartbeat against her leg. Numb with shock, she palmed at its head and shoulders, and finally pushed him off her, so he was lying face down on the floor of the van, blood rapidly pooling around him.

Harley looked down at herself. Her arms and hands were streaked with blood, her dress soaked and splattered. She glared up at the Joker. He was still standing with one hand braced against the ceiling, swaying with the motion of the van and looking unfazed as he watched her react.

"You asshole!" She accused, her voice thick with emotion.

The van took another hard turn, and the Joker planted his feet as he swayed with it, his eyes still trained on Harley.

She met his gaze evenly, confused, frightened, and pissed as hell that she'd been taken against her will.

"Aw," he pretended to pout at her. "You're mad you ruined your dress, I get it."

Harley made to stand, but she slipped in the clown's blood which was quickly spreading across the floor of the van, forcing the other clowns to shift away from it. The Joker dropped down to sit beside them and pulled a burner phone from the depths of his overcoat, turning his attention to typing out a message. It seemed his interest in Harley was fading now she wasn't screaming.

She could feel the adrenaline began to leak out of her system, and she started to crash, both emotionally and physically. Looking at her hands again, she wiped them uneasily on her legs, which were splayed straight out in front of her, and an awful hopelessness came crashing over her. She rocked back and forth with the motion of the van, staring at a spot in the corner where she wouldn't have to acknowledge the Joker or his clowns.

* * *

"We're still missing a few people," the patrolman consulting a clipboard told Gordon.

"Who?" Gordon frowned around at the well-dressed socialites crying, hugging and climbing into Rolls Royces on the steps of the Natural History Museum.

"Ivania Dumas, Bruce Wayne, Euphemia Kane, and some people are saying they saw Harleen Quinzel in there."

Gordon ran a hand over his face, feeling the stubble he hadn't had a chance to shave off yet.

"Harleen Quinzel was here tonight?" He asked shortly.

"Seems that way," the patrolman replied warily. "But Ivania Dumas was definitely taken by the Joker's men."

"Find her," Gordon ordered. "Find all of them."

* * *

They drove for what felt like hours, but Harley didn't trust her sense of time in her current state of mind.

At one point there had been sirens, and the van made several sharp turns that could have been evasive maneuvers, but for a while now it had just been silence. Only the muttering of the driver to whoever was in the passenger seat and the  _tap tap tap_  of the Joker texting whoever he was talking to.

Harley had decided not to think about who he was talking to. She was trying not to think about him at all, just as she was trying not to think about the two clowns staring at her from behind their masks or the third clown laying dead beside her. At some point she expected them to tie her up, or just shoot her. She was saving her physical and mental energy for fighting back when that moment came. Would she be able to fight back enough to save herself? Probably not, but that didn't mean she wouldn't try.

The van turned off the road and onto something wooden and hollow sounding, and Harley sat up straighter, listening for clues to where they were. She could make out a passing lamp post through the windshield from her position behind the passenger seat, and she glanced sideways at the Joker in the brief light. He was tucking his phone away in his overcoat, his face an unreadable mask beneath the warpaint. It had started to smear with sweat, and now his real face was showing through in places — just a sliver of the man beneath.

After about a minute of rolling along the van slowed to a stop, and Harley braced herself as the Joker stood.

Outside, she could hear people speaking, but she couldn't make out the words. She strained her ears, keeping her eyes on the corner, refusing to look even as the Joker kicked the van's back doors open

"Ah, yeah. We knew it would be Dumpty. He always was an idiot," said a gruff voice, and Harley finally allowed herself to look.

Two henchmen bundled up in scarves and heavy jackets stood outside the van. Behind them, Harley could see they'd driven onto a long, wooden pier sparsely dotted with light posts that cut through the complete darkness. She stared past the Joker and his henchmen, wondering what the likelihood was that she'd survive if she just flat out ran for it down the pier, and decided her chances weren't very good.

Instead, she remained where she was, numbly watching as the Joker used his heel to roll the dead clown out of the van and onto the pier. The henchmen pushed the doors closed again, and the van continued to roll on slowly for a few more minutes before coming to a stop again.

The back doors opened, and this time, Harley could hear everything. Male voices speaking over one another, the  _beep beep beep_  of a truck or something similar backing up, wood banging and metal clanging - a cacophony of sounds that meant the Joker had been busy.

The two surviving clowns hopped out of the van, and the two in the front seats exited as well. Harley's hands started to shake so hard she had to clasp them together in her lap. The clown's blood had dried into a sticky crust on her arms and chest, and the gown was almost soaked through in places, weighing it down. She realized then that she was still sitting in a puddle of human blood, and was at a loss to explain how she'd gotten used to the tangy, sickly smell.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when the Joker abruptly squatted down in front of her, resting his elbows on his knees and cocking his head to the side. There was a shade of annoyance in the lift of his eyebrows.

"Uh,  _look,_ " he started, his eyes rolling over to the clowns waiting for them outside the van. There were five of them now, all watching intently. "I don't  _wanna_ drag you out by your hair, doc. But I'm gonna need you to move...  _now._ "

He stood swiftly, and was out of the van in three long strides, shooting her an expectant look.

The memory of the last time he'd dragged her by the hair sent a phantom ripple of pain racing across Harley's scalp, spurring her to plant her feet and pull herself up shakily. She took a few unsteady steps to the edge of the van where she stopped, weighing up climbing down like a wobbly toddler or jumping with the intent of landing in five-inch heels, something she was pretty sure she would have been capable of if she wasn't shaking like a leaf.

Apparently, she took too much time trying to decide because the Joker suddenly hooked his arm around her waist and forcibly dragged her out. Harley's hands flew up to his shoulders, grabbing the lapels of his overcoat as he set her firmly on her feet.

She looked around at the place he'd taken her to, and her first thought was that they were in a hunting lodge. It was a large room built from old timber, but she could hear water lapping beneath her feet and taste sea salt on her tongue. Parked around the van were a variety of vehicles - a rusted old Ford truck, a sleek black Audi with tinted windows, a bright orange Uhaul, two vans with "Clarence's Catering" scripted along their sides, a yellow taxi and a clunky beater without a license plate.

Harley looked around at the cars a second time, her brain moving sluggishly as she tried to work out what she was seeing. She only realized her hands were still wrapped around the Joker's lapels when he took hold of her wrists and removed them, startling her from her thoughts.

"Yo!"

A kid with tight cornrows and a garish pink satin jacket swaggered up to them, and Harley's eyes widened when she recognized him as the kid who'd been selling weed outside Arkham for weeks. He grinned at her, showing off a set of gold-capped teeth, clearly enjoying her surprise.

"Boss, Bruno says he's got some leftovers for you," the kid said, turning his attention back to the Joker.

"Good," the Joker snapped, and the kid's face lit up like a dog being thrown a bone. "Tell him I need him," he added roughly, glancing sideways at Harley.

She didn't know what to do with that glance, but she knew it didn't mean anything good. Then the Joker draped his arm over her shoulders, drawing her in close to his side, making her entire body tense up as she waited for something terrible to happen.

"Come on," he rasped cheerfully, pretending to be friendly as he nudged her forward. "Let's get you the tour!"

They weaved between the cars, the kid leading the way with the clowns following silently behind them. Harley clasped her hands in front of her, knowing the Joker would be able to feel her shaking but not having the emotional capacity to hate herself for it. In the span of a few hours she'd had a gun pointed in her face, and a knife held to her throat and a dead man in her lap, not to mention been kidnapped after watching five people get murdered. Her brain was responding to the stress of the evening by putting her body in shock to cope with it.  _You're not weak,_  she told herself,  _this is just... too much..._

They passed under an arch into another wide room about half the size of a high school gymnasium. Harley gazed around, feeling overwhelmed by what she was seeing.

On one side there was a forklift moving pallets wrapped in plastic off a flatbed truck onto the floor beside more pallets. Henchmen wielding knives were slicing through the plastic, revealing stacks of cash which they tucked into duffle bags and tossed aside. On the other side of the room were ten or more lazily stacked wooden crates. Harley watched a henchman with a crowbar pry off the lid of one crate before a group of masked clowns dove inside like kids on Christmas. Some of them withdrew automatic rifles while others examined smaller handguns, tucking them away in their pants or holsters if they had them.

Harley wanted to ask how. How had the Joker gathered fifty-plus men - half of whom were happy to dress up as clowns - within forty-eight hours? How had he acquired what had to be hundreds of thousands of dollars - if not more - in cash in such a small span of time? And how the  _hell_  had he been able to acquire enough guns and ammunition to arm a small militia?

The Joker navigated her over to a small group of men. Two were wearing the same tuxedos, shiny shoes and white gloves of the security staffing the museum while the third was a huge man who looked straight out of central casting for  _The Godfather._  He was handing over duffle bags full of cash to the men, both of whom were pale and sweaty, the stink of shame radiating off them.

"You didn't tell us it was the Joker," one of them said, sounding conflicted.

"That gonna be a problem for you two?" The huge man asked, lifting one bushy eyebrow.

"No," said the other man, shooting his friend a meaningful look. "No, that won't be a problem, sir."

"Good," the huge man said coldly. "Now get the fuck outta here."

Both men shouldered their duffle bags, obviously eager to get the hell away from the huge man. When they turned, they spotted the Joker, and their eyes widened almost comically before shifting to Harley, who was tucked under his arm in a blood-soaked slip dress. One of them started to say something, but the other stopped him, grabbing him by the elbow and hauling him away.

"Thank you for your service, boys!" The Joker called after them. "Don't call us,  _we'll_  call you."

Harley looked over her shoulder to watch the guards scurry away like cowards, wondering how they would cope with the guilt of knowing their friends and colleagues had been killed so they could enrich themselves.

"Boss, we got some Maroni boys in the new batch," the huge man said, shooting Harley a look loaded with either curiosity or straight up suspicion. Unlike the clowns, who were shabbily-dressed like everyday Gotham thugs, this one wore a sharp black suit with a crisp white shirt, and the first few buttons were undone like he was at the end of a long day in the office. Harley stared at his fleshy face, memorizing the big nose, bushy eyebrows and full head of black hair.

"You wanna deal with 'em?" He asked the Joker, not looking at Harley.

"Later," the Joker said shortly. "We need to have a uh...  _chat_  with the good  _doctor_  here."

His arm fell away from her shoulders, and he stepped away to stand beside the huge man, so they were both looking down at Harley. Without the warmth of his arm, she was suddenly freezing in her wet gown, and she wrapped her arms around herself, both defensively and for warmth as she turned her eyes up to the huge man first, and then the Joker, her mouth tightening into a stubborn scowl.

The corner of the Joker's mouth twitched, like her posturing amused him, and he hitched a thumb at the huge man.

"This is Bruno," he told her smugly.

"Nice to meet you, Bruno," Harley replied quietly, with plenty of bite to her words.

Bruno didn't say anything, but he gestured for them to follow him to a small office built into the corner. It was dimly lit by a cracked lamp without a shade and sparsely furnished with a desk in the corner and a pair of folding chairs. The walls were broken and covered in exposed wires, but it was a fraction warmer than the larger room, so Harley entered obediently.

Bruno motioned to one of the folding chairs, and she sat carefully, keeping her knees together and watching both men suspiciously. Bruno closed the office door while the Joker took the other folding chair, positioning himself so he was sitting knee to knee with Harley, his arms folded across his chest as he considered her and she glared back at him. Her limbs had stopped shaking at last, and her fear was slowly melting into anger, for which she was eternally grateful to her hypothalamus.

The Joker chuckled and hunkered forward, keeping his arms crossed.

 _"This_  feels awfully familiar," he purred, cocking one eyebrow. "Just like old times... huh?"

When it became clear to him that Harley wasn't going to reply he sighed like she was being unreasonable and scooted his folding chair back so Bruno could move into his place, leaning against the desk as he contemplated Harley.

"How ya feelin', Harley?" He asked her, and it sounded like he was intentionally not using her professional name.

"Cold," she bit back, squeezing her elbows to generate some heat.

"Ah, yeah," Bruno nodded, and to Harley's surprise, he shrugged out of his suit jacket and offered it to her. Beneath the jacket he wore a shoulder holster with a pistol tucked securely under his armpit.

Harley accepted the jacket with a murmured thanks, not wanting to be grateful to Bruno. She slipped her arms into the sleeves and pushed them up to her elbows, letting it fall around her.

"Now," Bruno braced his huge frame against the desk and met her gaze evenly. "Why don't ya tell us everything ya know about Oswald Cobblepot."

The request was the last thing Harley had expected, surprising her into silence. She had mentioned Penguin to stall for time to keep the Joker from carving her face open, but she hadn't expected him actually to listen, let alone look into it further.

"I..." She started to say, looking at the Joker as she tried to work out what the best response would be. He licked his bottom lip and raised a dispassionate eyebrow.

"Why don't you start at the beginning," Bruno suggested, drawing her attention back to him.

"There was a girl," Harley said slowly, her eyes darting between the two men, trying to gauge their reactions to her words. Had the Joker only brought her there to ask her about Penguin? That seemed far fetched. Surely among their minions and henchmen, someone had to know more about Penguin than she did.

The question 'why are you asking me' was on the tip of her tongue, but Harley was well aware that she was a prisoner. Being helpful was her best way out of there. Maybe even alive.

"There was a girl," she started again. "Her name was Lucy, and she said Penguin sent her. She followed me onto the train and..."

"What'd she look like?" Bruno interrupted.

"Long brown hair... green eyes," Harley said slowly, searching her mind for memories of Lucy. "Young, pretty. Dressed like... like a Guns n'Roses groupie."

The Joker snorted a laugh and Harley shot him a confused look.

"Is she Cobblepot's girl?" Bruno probed, folding his arms over his chest.

"Uh, no," Harley shook her head. "No, I'm pretty sure he's gay."

Bruno and the Joker exchanged a quick look at that revelation, with a familiarity that made Harley wonder what exactly their relationship was.

"What makes you say that?" Bruno asked her. "He got a boy around?"

"No, he just... his mannerisms," Harley explained, trying to remember. "His demeanor, the way he treated me. That was the impression I got."

Bruno nodded. "What did this Lucy say to you on the train?"

"She told me she worked for Penguin and that he wanted me to be his friend," she paused when the Joker rolled his eyes dramatically and slumped down in his folding chair. "... and that I should come by the Iceberg Lounge sometime..."

"And you went?"

"A few days later," Harley said, not wanting to tell them that she'd gone straight after the Joker attacked her. "He put me on the list," she continued carefully. "And I was taken into the kitchen where I met Penguin."

"Who took you?"

"A tall guy, middle-aged, dark hair. Didn't say anything."

Bruno nodded like he understood perfectly. "And what did Penguin say to you?"

Harley sighed, thinking back to the conversation, which seemed like it had taken place a hundred years earlier.

"He was very flattering. He implied he'd threaten my boss for me -"

"Why would he threaten your boss for you?"

"Because my boss is a prick," Harley said shortly, not in the mood to go into her work life. "I declined. But mostly Penguin wanted me to tell the Joker that they should be  _friends._ "

"What did you make of that?"

"That... I mean, I don't know for sure," her eyes slid over to the Joker who had kicked one ankle up to rest on his knee, showing off a pair of garish purple and green striped socks. "I  _assumed_  he wanted to break you out of Arkham, but I have no idea why."

"Why dontcha guess," Bruno prodded. "You're a smart woman, and you know how people's minds work. Why would Cobblepot wanna make 'friends' with the Joker."

They were both watching her so intently Harley had to shut her eyes, feeling overwhelmed.

"Maybe..." She licked her lips, remembering the look in Penguin's eyes when he'd asked. It frustrated her that she couldn't find the  _right_  answer and opened her eyes to glare at both men. "I mean, I have no idea! You two are the seasoned criminals - you should know what he wants better than I can tell you. Maybe he wants to take you on a date, maybe he wants-"

Bruno waved one big hand for her to stop, which shut Harley up quickly, and the Joker hunched forward, leaning on his elbows as he squinted at her thoughtfully.

"Why d'you think he asked  _you_  for help?" Bruno continued.

"I have been wondering that myself," she replied, sounding very tired.

"Doesn't make much sense, does it," Bruno pushed. "Ya gotta good job, don't need to worry about money. Why wouldn't he try to get an orderly or a guard who could use the cash?"

"Penguin is a textbook narcissist," Harley explained, shooting the Joker a pointed look that made his lips twitch. "He can't fathom being wrong, and he thinks he's top dog no matter what. He thinks he deserves to get everything he wants. He came to me because he believes he can persuade anyone to do anything. As far as he's concerned, if he could get Mother Teresa to the Iceberg Lounge, he could convince her to do his bidding. A guard or an orderly was too lowly, and they wouldn't have had the kind of access to the Joker he wanted. So he came straight to me."

"Lucky for Penguin you're not Mother Teresa," Bruno replied, looking impressed.

"Narcissists always overplay their hands eventually," Harley shot back, her eyes again drifting to the Joker who was thoughtfully prodding the inside of his cheek with his tongue. "It's  _always_  how they get caught," she added, narrowing her eyes.

He tried to smother a grin, like she was so profoundly entertaining to him he could hardly contain himself. Then he looked to Bruno, his grin disappearing instantly, and they had another silent conversation before the Joker stood up. Harley shrank back, fearful that now she'd given them what they wanted she would be disposed of.

"C'mon," the Joker said gruffly, walking out of the office without a backward glance.

"You heard the boss," Bruno shrugged, gesturing for Harley to stand and follow, which she did reluctantly.

Another surprise. She couldn't take another surprise.

"He's not my boss," she muttered as she passed Bruno, and she heard him chuckle as he followed her, closing the door behind him.

Harley stopped dead in her tracks when she saw what waiting for her outside the office.

Three men were kneeling beside one of the palettes of cash, their hands tied behind their backs and duct tape covering their mouths. They were all in various states of beaten and bruised - a swollen eye here, a busted lip there. These were the Maroni boys Bruno had mentioned before, and it didn't take a genius to work out that they were going to be killed for attempting to infiltrate the Joker's gang.

There were about ten henchmen looming over them, some taunting them about their impending deaths while others smoked passively, waiting for the show to start.

Then there was the Joker, loading a handgun as he gave a speech about how it wasn't very nice to lie and how he was a man of his word. When he finished loading the gun he swung around to face Harley, finding her eyes immediately. He wagged two fingers at her, indicating she should come closer, and Bruno pressed a hand to her shoulder, urging her forward.

Harley's body felt like gelatin as she took a step forward, like her fight or flight instincts had abandoned her completely. They were going to make her kneel with Maroni's treacherous goons and execute her. Then probably roll her body into the bay just like they'd done to Dumpty. She could see it as clear as day.

Bruno nudged her again, propelling her forward.

 _Run_! She thought desperately.  _Do_ _something! Do anything!_

Instead, she walked up to the Joker's side, her jaw clenching so hard it ached.

" _Aww_ ," he cooed, his voice syrupy though his face was deadly serious. Harley whole body twitched when he lifted a hand to adjust her hair for her, tucking a few tangled blonde strands behind her ear almost gently. He met her eye and hummed low in his throat. "Let's play a game," he growled.

She nearly replied but thought better of it, her eyes dropping down to the floor, letting herself grieve for her young life.

But then the Joker took her right hand, deftly prying it open so her palm faced open to the ceiling. He placed the gun he'd loaded into her hand and wrapped her fingers closed around it, nudging her index finger onto the trigger. Then he edged closer, moving behind her so his chest was against her back again, and Harley stiffened, her eyes flying open wide in surprise as he leaned into her.

"Ya know," he said softly, his scarred mouth settling against the shell of her ear, making her pulse leap frantically. "You make a lot of... uh,  _interesting_  choices. It makes me wonder... who  _exactly_  you are."

"What are you talking about," Harley hissed, distracted by his breath in her hair as she craned her head around to look up at him.

"I'm saying... life is about choices," he peered down at her through hooded eyes, his expression placid beneath the paint. "And I'm gonna let you make one right now."

He released her and took a step back, a farce of granting her freedom when in reality she was just as trapped in a warehouse full of his thugs who would kill her as soon as look at her if the Joker told them to.

"You kill one of these Maroni guys for me... and believe me, these are some  _bad_  hombres... I let you go home," he continued, his voice rough now that his boys listening. " _No_  strings attached."

Harley stared at him, trying to understand what he was saying. The gun in her hand was heavy and impossible to ignore, and she'd seen him load it with bullets - real bullets. If she wanted to, she could shoot him dead and save the world a lot of grief, and knowing him as well as she did, she was sure that was an option he'd purposefully put on the table for her. But if she killed him, his boys wouldn't let her go. There were fifty or more of them and only one of her. No way would she get out alive.

She looked at the Maroni boys, knowing the easiest choice to make would be to kill one of them and hope that the Joker followed through with his promise. She didn't know these men, only that they were supposedly thugs, but even that could be a farce. As unlikely as it was that they were innocent, Harley could still feel herself resisting.

The Joker wanted her to make a choice, and the options he'd given her were to kill a bad person and live, or be a good person and die.

It made her furious that he was trying to force her into making a choice of his own making. That was the entirely opposite point of choice, and she wasn't about to let him take her right to choose her own fate away from her.

Harley lifted her arm, aiming at the Maroni boy closest to her as she fingered the trigger. She turned to look at the Joker again and watched him lick his lips, anticipation palpable in the ordinarily hard to read lines of his face. She set her jaw, narrowed her eyes, and turned back to the men in front of her.

Her arm jerked to the left, to one of the henchmen who had been examining the weapons cache, and she fired twice.

The first bullet missed but the second hit the henchman in the cheek. There was a spray of red behind him, and he collapsed to the floor.

Things seemed to move in slow motion around Harley after that. The thought  _you just killed another human being_  floated calmly through her brain in a way she hadn't expected it would, rattling her philosophically but not emotionally. Henchmen moved in to check on the dead man while others moved toward her with revenge in their eyes. Bruno wrestled the gun away from her and lifted her clear off her feet, rushing her away before any of the henchmen could get close.

Behind them, the Joker was laughing, loud and hysterical and indulgent. There were three more gunshots, which must have been the Maroni boys' fates being sealed.

Harley didn't struggle as Bruno bundled her into the black Audi parked beside the van she'd arrived in. She sank back against the soft leather seat, so triumphant she was nearly drunk on it. She'd  _won_. Yes, she'd killed a man which was... bewildering, and her lack of guilt over it something she'd look at later. But right now she was too tired, and she wanted to bask in her victory.

She'd beaten the Joker at his own game. She'd taken the game pieces he'd offered her and thrown them off the table.

Bruno climbed into the driver's seat, looking twitchy as he pulled on his seat belt and put the key in the ignition before finally looking at her.

"Oops," she said, her lips turning up in a small smile. Her head was swimming, and she was too tired to be afraid anymore.

"Yeah, oops," Bruno shook his head and reached across her to fish around in the glove box until he retrieved a sleeping mask embroidered with an airline logo. He offered it to Harley, and she accepted it warily, testing the elastic of the strap.

"What's this..."

"I'm takin' you home," he informed her, like she'd caused enough trouble for one day. "Why don't you just put that on and get some sleep."

Moving slowly, Harley tugged on the sleeping mask and settled back, knowing she shouldn't just accept Bruno's claim at face value. That if she fell asleep, she could never wake up, or worse, wake up in worse condition.

But she was so tired.

As Bruno backed the car out of the warehouse, he turned the radio on. It was Elvis, crooning about love and sadness. Harley tried to stay awake, focusing on Elvis's voice to ground herself, but her body was exhausted, and soon enough, she had drifted off to sleep.

* * *

**A/N: OOPS!**

**  
** **Fun Fact: While Penguin is based on the character from Gotham, Sofia Falcone is completely different. Apparently, I have some Gotham to catch up on!**

**Next: Harley is asked to 'consult' on a project as she comes to terms with her recent choices.  
**

**Feedback much appreciated :)**


	7. Chapter 7

The Harlequin

7.

* * *

There was a hand on her arm, gently shaking her awake. Harley's eyes opened slowly, her eyelashes dragging against the thin material of the sleeping mask as she swam back to consciousness. For a few blessed seconds, she was simply confused about where she was and why she was wearing a sleeping mask. Then the events of the previous days and hours came rushing back and she groaned unhappily, lifting one hand to push the sleeping mask up on her head.

Bruno, who easily outweighed Harley by a few hundred pounds, was in the driver's seat watching her like he was worried she'd make a sudden move.

"How ya doin?" He asked tersely.

"Tired," she replied, peering out the tinted window to see where they were. She frowned and turned back to Bruno. "You took me home?"

"Said I would, didn't I?" He shrugged.

Harley shrugged too, too tired to argue or give the situation more thought. All she wanted was a place to lie down. Preferably one as far away from the Joker's henchman as possible.

"I guess," she agreed, and starting to reach for the door handle with sleep-deadened fingers.

"Your building got CCTV cameras?" Bruno asked, ducking his head to get a look at the tower complex out the windshield.

"No," Harley said slowly, following his gaze to the main entrance where the lobby's lights were shining out into the darkened square.

"How about a doorman?" Bruno pressed.

"Yeah," Harley admitted, looking down at the blood stained slip-dress she wore beneath the massively oversized blazer Bruno had lent her. Her thoughts began to turn toward the Joker but she shut them down with a remarkable amount of self-restraint. She was too tired for that. She sighed and pulled down the sun visor so she could check her face in the small mirror, groaning at what she was greeted with.

There was a smear of clown blood on her neck and her eyes looked hollow, the makeup she'd so carefully applied smudged all around them.

Bruno fished a tartan scarf out of the backseat and handed it to her. "Just keep yer head down," he advised. "People don't notice things unless they're lookin."

"Thanks," Harley muttered, winding the scarf around her neck, though she sensed the blood-spattered bottom half of her dress was more incriminating.

"Can I give ya some advice?" Bruno asked, and Harley nodded, though she was dreading whatever advice a Joker-affiliate could give her. "Call the cops when ya get upstairs. Let em' know you're alright," Bruno suggested.

"Are you sure?" She frowned, not quite trusting that calling the cops was her kidnapper's top tier advice. But Bruno confirmed this with a nod and Harley shrugged and started pushing the car door open, preparing herself for the cold rush of autumn air.

"One more thing," Bruno added as her foot hit the pavement. She looked back at him, feeling like there was only ever  _'one more thing'_  with these people. "The other two we took'll be home by now. The boys tied em' up, blindfolded em' and drove em' around for a couple hours before droppin' em off down the street from their homes. Safe as houses. Just like you."

Harley blinked stupidly at him, understanding that he was giving her a line to tell the cops but not fully sure how she would explain what happened in her own words. How did you explain any of what happened?

"You know," Bruno continued casually, offering her a small smile that suggested they were sharing a secret. "In case you don't want em' to think you're special to the Joker or somethin'"

 _Special to the Joker_. It was said so benignly but there was so much weight attached to the concept that Harley nearly gave up and collapsed back into the car. Instead, she shook her head and used the door frame to pull herself out into the square.

"Have a good night, Dr Quinzel," Bruno called after her.

Harley slammed the door in his face, not waiting for the Audi to pull away before she jogged up the steps of her building and into the lobby.

As with most evenings, the doorman on duty was absorbed in his phone and didn't bother to greet her as she hurried to the bank of elevators. She thumbed the button to call the elevator before thinking better of it and taking the stairs so she wouldn't come face to face with any of her neighbors. By the time she reached her front door she had removed her heeled sandals and was on the verge of crumbling to the floor, and only then did she realize that she had lost her clutch at some point in the evening and didn't have a wallet, phone or keys.

Harley exhaled slowly, trying to keep herself calm, or at least not become more stressed than she already was. There was a key under the mat, which now seemed incredibly naive but she was grateful for it anyway.

Once safely inside her apartment, where she was free to cry or scream or collapse to her heart's desire, Harley started to feel like she was losing her mind.

Had she really just snuck past her doorman, afraid she would be caught in a bloodstained dress? She was the victim! She should have run up to him screaming at him to call the cops! The Joker had kidnapped her, interrogated her, threatened and terrorized her, and somehow she made it home alive. It wasn't completely cut and dry - she had  _killed_  someone - but it could be argued she'd done it for self-defense. Gordon would understand, wouldn't he?

So why didn't she run up to the doorman demanding he call 911?

Harley sat down hard on the floor and ripped off Bruno's scarf as she starting to feel like it was strangling her. She ran her fingers over her face, her breathing growing shaky as she thought back to pulling the trigger and killing the Joker's henchman.

It hadn't been necessary, not really. She'd chosen to do it because she wanted to beat the Joker in a lethal game that was impossible to  _really_  win. How did she explain that to Gordon? He told me to kill someone or be killed, so I killed someone else. Would it matter? They were all criminals...

At worst she'd be pardoned for manslaughter.

_Manslaughter._

It was an imposing word, leaving no room for interpretation.

She started to fall asleep on the floor slumped against the wall when Bruno's advice to call the MCU sprang to the front of her mind. With a great deal of self-control, she forced herself back to her feet and into the bedroom.

Along with her wallet and keys her phone was also gone, leaving her with the option of going back to the doorman or using Penguin's burner. She chose the latter, dialing Gordon's personal number from memory after calling him a handful of times in the wake of the Joker's escape.

It was late, nearing 3 AM, but Harley reasoned Gordon was unlikely to be home sleeping soundly after the events of the evening. She sat heavily on her bed and ran her hand over her hair, her bare foot tapping restlessly on the floor as Gordon's phone rang and rang...

"Gordon."

"I... hi," she fumbled the phone in the darkness. "This is Harleen Quinzel."

Gordon sighed loudly, a sound of relief and exhaustion.

"It's good to hear your voice, Dr Quinzel," he said briskly, but not unkindly. "Are you... okay? Do you need medical attention? I can send officers if you -"

"No, no, please don't," Harley could hear how strained her voice sounded. "I'm fine. I don't need medical attention but this has been very... taxing, and I just want to get some sleep."

That was partly true; she did want to sleep. But after a quick look around the chaotic mess of her bedroom, so similar to the rest of the apartment, Harley knew there was no way she could have police in her home.

"Are you sure?" Gordon pressed.

"Yes," Harley sighed, folding over so her face was pressed against her knees.

"Can you come to the station tomorrow? So we can get your statement?" Gordon cleared his throat awkwardly. "Unless there's anything you can tell me now?"

Harley's lips parted to speak but she couldn't bring herself to say any of the things she could - or  _should_  - have told Gordon. That the Joker had a major operation on a pier somewhere an hour away from her apartment. That he had fifty to sixty goons on his payroll, plus plenty of money and weapons stashed at that pier. That he was interested in Oswald Cobblepot. That he seemed to be in some kind of war with Maroni.

"They put me in the trunk of a car and blindfolded me," she said instead, the lie rolling off her tongue too easily. "Then dropped me off down the street from my building. I... didn't see anything. I'm just... really tired."

"I understand, Dr Quinzel," Gordon said, and she could hear him scrubbing a hand over his jaw thoughtfully. "Come by the station whenever you feel up to it tomorrow."

"Alright," Harley agreed, nodding into her knees.

"Goodnight, Dr Quinzel."

When the call ended Harley remained where she was, folded over so she had a face-full of sticky, bloodied silk. But she was too tired to care. The most she was capable of was rolling onto her side and pulling her feet up onto the bed. And soon she was unconscious again.

* * *

She slept until noon, waking up with a headache and an awful twisting feeling in her stomach that she initially thought was her conscience prodding her to tell Gordon the truth, but was really from not eating for almost a full day. After feeding herself a meager brunch of leftover Thai food she finally peeled off the bloody Sofia Falcone dress and threw it directly into the garbage along with Bruno's blazer, covering them with empty take out boxes so she wouldn't have to see them again.

Then came cleaning the clown blood off her skin, which proved to be more taxing than she'd imagined. The shower took care of most of it, the soapy water running pink as it swirled down the drain as she scrubbed her skin raw. But there were still rust-colored lines beneath her fingernails, so she trimmed them right down to the quick, then scraped what remained with a scouring pad until they were bleeding.

Next, she discovered five fingerprint size bruised on the back of her thigh, just below her ass. Harley vividly remembered the Joker's fingers digging into her as he fled the party with her over his shoulder. The memory made her shiver - not unpleasantly - but she wasn't in the mood to figure out why. Instead, she compartmentalized her feelings into a rapidly expanding  _'Don't Think About'_  mental folder. There were other, more important things to worry about, like what a cop would think if they saw the state of her apartment.

Knowing there was a better chance than ever that she would have to invite the police into her home, Harley started a frantic cleaning spree. She piled her clothes into trash bags - most of them were torn or stained after weeks on her bedroom floor, and besides that, she just didn't want to look at them anymore - and swept up the broken glass in the kitchen and bathroom. She shifted the remains of her smashed television to the corner, piled the couch stuffing into trash bags and vacuumed what mess she could from the living room floor. She bleached and scrubbed the bathroom, ridding it of all traces of clown DNA, and vacuumed the mirror and vase debris from the hallway until a particularly large piece of glass broke the damn thing and she had to admit defeat

By this stage, Harley had been cleaning for hours, and the apartment, while still in a chaotic state of disarray, at least looked better than it had for weeks. Cleaning almost helped distract her from relentlessly obsessing over each terrible, strange, and intense moment she'd shared with the Joker in recent weeks. Those moments when he had invaded her personal space, threatened her, hurt her, taken away her agency. And yet she didn't hate him for any of it. Instead, she berated herself for how she'd reacted in each instance.  _Weakly._

She needed to get out of the apartment and find something new to distract her. Arkham wasn't an option; she had the day off to 'recuperate' and Blakely was pushing her to take a leave of absence anyway. If she showed up they would just force her to go home again. That left the gym or the MCU, and she wasn't ready to face Gordon yet.

So Harley packed up her gym bag, including the Beretta after some deliberation, and hopped on the metro, feeling paranoid every time she caught another passenger's eye.

When she arrived at the gym she breathed a sigh of relief. Since all of this started, training had become a safe haven for her again, a way to channel her energy into conditioning her body while holding dangerous thoughts at bay. It was late afternoon on a Saturday so the gym was empty aside from a few die-hards, and Harley took advantage of the lack of other gymnasts training to practice some old routines on the floor.

When she was a teenager, gymnastics had been her life. She'd practiced for hours every day, her coaches telling her she could be an Olympian if she worked hard enough. Her dedication had partially been born of a need to win and succeed in a classic overachiever fashion, but it had also been about distracting herself from a miserable home life in foster care, where she was outright ignored by her guardians.

In the end, she was told she was " _too tall"_  to be an Olympian and ended up with an academic scholarship to Gotham University instead of an athletic one. GU didn't even have a gymnastics team to join, giving her more time to party like a 'normal' college girl. Because  _that_  had worked out so well.

Harley didn't need validation from gymnastics anymore. Just distraction.

She did a series of front walk overs to get used to the sprung floor before returning to the corner of the mat to prepare. She paused, released a deep breath, and put her head down, then took off at a sprint and jumped into the air -  _roundoff, back handspring, back handspring, aerial cartwheel, front flip with a twist_  - and stuck the landing!

With her arms raised and her back arched, posing for an invisible crowd, Harley couldn't help but feel ridiculous. She chuckled and returned to the corner of the mat, repeating the routine a few times before moving to the beam and then the parallel bars. She trained until every muscle in her body was exhausted and pleading with her to stop, and she conceded to herself that it was getting late enough that she should suck it up and make the trip to see Gordon.

As she showered and changed, she practiced what she would say to Gordon when she saw him, and it wasn't  _all_  lies. She was just omitting  _quite_  a lot of important information and lying about one  _specific_  part of the story. And it wasn't like the Joker or any of his goons were going to blow her cover...  _maybe._

She headed for the metro with her gym bag hooked over one shoulder, finally starting to feel safe and well-balanced when...

"Yo, doc!"

She stopped in her tracks at the sound of the familiar, cocky voice, and looked over her shoulder to see Killer lounging against the hood of a clunky old Cadillac, smoking a joint and grinning cheekily at her.

A hundred reasons for Killer to be waiting outside her gym raced through Harley's brain, especially those that centered around him being sent to kill her. It wasn't exactly discrete, sending a henchman named  _Killer_  to catch her in the parking lot when the sun hadn't even set, but the Joker wasn't known for  _discretion._

"Chill  _out_ , girl," Killer laughed, sliding off the hood of the car. "I just wanna talk."

"What do you want?" Harley scowled, dismayed at how emotional she sounded. "What does  _he_  want?"

"Just to talk," Killer repeated, tossing away his joint and holding up both hands in surrender as he continued to saunter toward her.

Harley's body tensed all over as he moved closer, and she scrambled to open her gym bag and fish around inside for the Beretta. Not even considering that she was in public in broad daylight, she pointed the gun at Killer, deftly flicking the safety off with her thumb. Her hands were steady and her eyes cold, and she could see Killer hesitate.

He stopped short with his hands still raised, laughing in disbelief. She must have made a bizarre picture in athleisure wear and tennis shoes, her wet hair tied up in a ponytail, wielding a shiny Italian handgun.

"Damn, girl!"

"What the fuck do you want to talk to me about?" Harley demanded. Shooting him would be easy but explaining to the police why she had killed a kid with an unlicensed firearm would be difficult. She swallowed thickly and pressed her lips together, waiting for Killer to make a move.

"Look, I get it," he said, still smirking but aiming for a more conciliatory tone now that he had a gun pointed at him. "The boss is one scary motherfucker! But all he wants is a favor..."

"A favor?" Harley laughed incredulously as she tried to wrap her head around what Killer was saying. "Where is he? What does he want? I'm  _done_  with his bullshit!"

"You don't gotta deal with him at all," Killer placated, inching a few steps closer. "Just me and one of the other guys. Come on, I ain't gonna hurt you. We'll make it worth your while."

Harley's forehead creased into a frown, the notion of doing a deal with the Joker's men without having to deal with him directly repellent and appealing and disappointing to her all at once.

_Damnit._

"What does he want?" She repeated, and glanced around the empty parking lot before before judging it safe enough to lower the weapon.

"It's real simple," Killer grinned. "You just gotta come for a drink with our buddy Lonnie tomorrow night. He needs you to  _consult_  on a project we're workin' on. Five grand just to answer some questions don't sound too bad, right?"

"Consult on  _what_  project?" Harley asked, some of the animosity leaking out of her voice as she thumbed the safety back on the gun and tucked it back in her gym bag. She didn't doubt a project put together by the Joker's crew would be anything short of horrific, but that didn't stop her from being curious  _within reason_.

"I dunno," Killer shrugged and flashed her a gold-tinted grin. "They just tell me I need to get you to say yes and get you there on time."

Harley ran a hand over her ponytail and huffed out a frustrated breath. She had been right; there was always  _one more thing_  with these people.

"Why the hell should I help you?" she demanded, her voice still frosty even though she was thawing to the idea of...  _consulting..._

Killer sighed like the weight of the world was on his shoulders and pulled an iPhone from his back pocket. His thumb slid across the screen a few times before he held it up for Harley to see the start of a video playing.

First, there was only shaky footage of a floor, but then the cameraman zoomed in on his targets. Through the narrow screen Harley was confronted with what she knew to be her own back, her blonde hair disheveled and her slip stained with blood. Beside her, the Joker was leaning in close, his white face and red mouth ghoulish as he whispered in Harley's ear. Then she turned to look at the Joker, and not only could you clearly see her face but you could see that she was aiming a gun at three men on their knees. A second later she turned away and the sound of two gunshots made the iPhone speakers fuzz with static.

Harley's mouth went dry. Watching herself kill the Maroni thug on camera made it even more impossible to ignore, and seeing herself standing beside the Joker was a completely new and startling affair in itself.

"You heard of Youtube?" Killer smirked, tucking the iPhone back in his pocket. "Ya know how shit goes  _viral?_ "

"So now I'm being blackmailed," Harley said quietly, her thoughts immediately going to Gordon and how he would react if he saw the video.

"Girl, it ain't blackmail if you gettin'  _paid."_ Killer flashed her another grin.

Harley glared at him, struggling more with the video than she was with the concept of answering some questions posed by an unknown Joker affiliate.

"Fine," she snapped at length. " _Fine._  What do I do?"

Killer handed her an old burner phone, a different model than the one Penguin had given her but no less clunky and outdated.

"I'll text you tomorrow," he told her, winking as he backed up towards the Cadillac, apparently not eager to turn his back on her. "Baby, don't look so sad! People would  _kill_  to make five grand just to answer a few questions about uh, science stuff, probably."

"Science stuff?" Harley repeated, bewildered.

But Killer had climbed behind the wheel of his car and started the engine, 90s hip hop blaring through a bad stereo. He offered her a friendly wave as he navigated the clunky car onto the road, leaving Harley stranded in the middle of an empty parking lot with only her confused thoughts to keep her company

* * *

The MCU was located on the east side of Downtown, probably because that was where a majority of the city's homicides, drug deals and robberies went down. It was less than an hour's walk from Harley's gym, so she decided to go on foot and use the time to clear her head.  _Again._

With the sun setting behind her, Harley ran through possible scenarios of what consulting on  _'science stuff'_  for the Joker's men might mean, but nothing she came up with - drugs, torture, psychological warfare? - made any real sense. That she was being both blackmailed  _and_  paid made her think the Joker - or just his goons? - had important questions they needed answering.

Also at the forefront of her mind were warring emotions over Killer's comment that she didn't need to deal with the Joker directly. Part of her was relieved. Another part of her was irritated that he didn't feel the need to deal with her personally. Intellectually, Harley knew that being  _dealt_  with by the Joker was bad news. It meant blood, death, and trauma in no small amount.

More importantly, if she consulted on one 'project' what was to stop him from blackmailing (and paying) her into consulting on other 'projects'... And if that became a theme... shouldn't she tell Gordon?

That train of thought led right back to her primary dilemma. How much to tell Gordon. She wrestled with it right up until she was around the corner from the station, and even then she didn't know for sure what the fallout of telling the truth would be.

A police siren wailed nearby, jolting Harley out of her thoughts, and a second later a fleet of police cruisers came careening around the corner, their lights flashing and sirens screaming. She jumped back from the curb and watched wide-eyed as the cruisers sped past, quickly followed by another four hot on their heels. She quickened her pace and turned the corner to find one cruiser after the next exiting the MCU's underground parking lot, their lights and sirens on full blast as they drove off in all different directions.

A familiar sense of imminent doom stirred inside her, and she knew instinctively that something Joker-related had happened. Anything that required such a full-tilt response had to be, and as she entered the station she was shocked to find it nearly empty aside from a handful of patrolmen and detectives shouting at one another over the sound of unanswered phones ringing off their hooks.

"Aw,  _shit._  I forgot about you." Stephens, the detective who had interrogated Harley at Arkham hurried forward to greet her. His face was beet-red and the white shirt beneath his suit jacket was stained with sweat. He had a cell phone in each hand, one pressed to his ear while he tried to text one-handed with the other.

"Is this..." Harley looked around at the rapidly emptying station and gripped her bag a little tighter. "A bad time...?"

"Uh, yes and no," Stephens grunted as he stomped up to an abandoned desk and rifled through a stack of papers. When he found what he was looking for he turned away from her and read a string of names to whomever he was on the phone with while Harley watched, shifting awkwardly until Stephens finally turned to face her again.

"Sorry about that," he said distractedly, pocketing both phones before running an anxious hand through his greying hair. "The Joker's making our lives hell again."

"What happened?" Harley frowned, watching a pair of deputies attempt to man the manically ringing phones.

"What  _hasn't_  happened," Stephens complained, planting his fists on his hips. "Four clown attacks across the city - City Hall, Wayne Enterprises, the D Train and the First National Bank - all hostage situations and they haven't told us what they want!" He shook his head and wiped sweat from his brow. "That's the problem with this guy - we never know what the fuck he wants!"

"Yeah," Harley agreed weakly, feeling she understood this sentiment all too well. "I can come back another time if that's easier?"

Stephens waved her offer off.

"Jim left me here specifically to speak to you," he informed her dutifully and gestured for her to follow him through the empty bullpen towards Gordon's office. "And  _I_  think you can help us figure this guy out."

"Me?" Harley replied in surprise, trailing after Stephens.

He circled Gordon's desk and prodded a drawer open, retrieving a blue plastic evidence bag, then circled back to sit in one of the two mismatched chairs facing of the desk. Harley lowered herself into the free chair, watching warily as Stephens ripped the evidence bag open and slid it across the desk towards her.

"We found that at the museum," he explained gruffly, and Harley dipped her hand into the evidence bag to find the clutch she'd lost the night before. "How did you call Gordon last night without your phone?" He squinted at her suspiciously.

"I have a spare phone for emergencies," Harley lied easily, peeking inside the clutch to find her phone, wallet, keys, and lipstick all where she left them. She stuffed all of it in her gym bag, still bundled up on her lap.

"Uh huh." Stephens sounded unconvinced and leveled her with a grave look. "Look, I'm sorry if I pushed you too hard at Arkham the other day, but you know how important it is that we get the Joker back into custody, don't you?"

"Yes," Harley agreed, nodding more enthusiastically than was necessary. "I'll do anything I can to help."

"Good, because no one has spent as much time with him as you have," Stephens wiped his brow and planted one elbow on the desk. "But right now I need to know what happened last night."

"Well," Harley exhaled and gripped her bag tightly, keenly aware of the Beretta wrapped up in a leotard inside it as she launched into an edited retelling of the previous evening's events.

She had been thrown in a trunk and didn't see anything.

She had been dropped off down the street from her house and didn't see anything.

She didn't know anything and didn't see anything.

Stephens' forehead crinkled, his frustration evident though he appeared to believe her.

"How are the others who were taken?" Harley asked, hoping to distract him from mulling over her story. "Are they... alive?"

"Did you see the papers this morning?" Stephens lifted a critical eyebrow when Harley shook her head 'no.'

"I've had enough of the press lately," she explained drily, and Stephens grunted approvingly at the sentiment.

"Yeah, the others are pretty shaken up but they're okay," he huffed out a disgruntled sigh, his face growing red as he started to get worked up. "I just don't  _get_  it."

"Don't get what?" Harley leaned forward so Stephens was forced to meet her eye. He was clearly struggling, it was written all over his face that he had something to say but was resisting. "You can trust me," Harley promised him, keeping her voice professional and clear despite the promise being anything but.

"We had eight bodies last night," Stephens shook his head, his hands curling into fists on his knees. "All security staff aside from that pianist. By all accounts it sounds like they were killed efficiently - no torture or crazy stuff - just shot in the head because he needed to get past them. So why does he take three hostages and let them go? He  _always_  kills the hostages. Everything has a message with him so what's the message in letting the rich people live and the servants die? And why diamonds and sapphires huh? What's he trying to tell us?"

Harley bit her lip as she considered his words. She couldn't help thinking that Stephens was reading too much into the Joker's moves and needed to take a step back, but she was guilty of the exact same thing. It seemed obvious to her that he'd stolen the gemstones because he needed money to fund his operation. But less obvious, was why the hostages had been let go...

Unless they'd been let go because  _Harley_  had been let go, and it would have invited suspicion if only  _Harley_  had been released.

Bruno's words from the night before ghosted across her memory.  _You don't want em' to think you're special to the Joker or somethin'._

Her mind started to feel sluggish, her thoughts tangling together as she tried to pick apart what she knew to be true from what she knew to be speculation. But it was getting harder to think straight, and even harder to find the resentment that had kept her going this long...

"I don't know," she said softly, blinking hard to clear her head. "He's... very complicated."

"Uh, yeah," Stephens rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, also blinking hard as if he was trying to keep himself awake.

Harley's eyelids started to droop and she felt a weird tingling in her fingertips that started to spread up her hands and arms, leaving them feeling pleasantly dull and heavy.

"I feel strange," Stephens slurred, but his voice sounded far away like he was speaking down a tin can.

"Something's wrong," Harley tried to say, but her tongue had become thick in her mouth. She knew she should be worried about what was happening to her body and some small part of her brain was leaping for attention, telling her something abnormal was happening to her nervous system, but she was so calm and warm, sleepy and tranquil...

Through heavy eyelids she could see Stephens was in much the same state, slumped half out of his seat with his eyelids fluttering, his breathing shallow. A picture flashed before her mind's eye. A picture from a textbook about addiction. Stephens looked like the men and women photographed in Victorian opium dens. And she knew that  _somehow,_  sitting there together, they had both been drugged.

Stephens lurched up suddenly, grabbing a handful of his shirt over his heart and wheezing as he collapsed to his knees in front of her. He scrabbled at the desk, dragging himself to his feet, and his struggling forced Harley to acknowledge the rational side of her brain which told her to  _move._ She threw herself out of her chair and forward, following Stephens staggering steps to the door. Her limbs were like jelly and she landed hard against the wall, her elbow cracking the glass frame of a photo of Gordon and the Mayor shaking hands.

Stephens was trying to open the door but his hands were limp and useless so Harley intervened with equally sluggish movements. Together they managed to get the door open, both crashing out into the empty corridor. Harley had hoped for a rush of fresh air that would clear the fog from her mind but there was none. Instead her scalp began to tingle, the sensation too pleasurable to ignore as it spread down the back of her neck and along her spine. She pushed past it, following Stephens as he stomped Frankenstein-like down the hall, stopping every few feet to catch himself against a wall until they were back out into the bullpen.

Harley started to sway and she could feel her knees begin to buckle. She pitched forward to catch herself on a desk and looked around for answers as to what was happening. The phones were still ringing shrilly but the deputies were flat on their backs on the floor beside the desks they'd occupied. A receptionist and a patrolman were laid out on the floor just in front of the glass doors like they'd passed out only inches from freedom. And right beside them was a metal sphere with a red blinking light, a spout on its side hissing out a gas that became invisible as it was released into the station.

Harley stared at the sphere, blinking hard as she tried to understand what she was seeing. The strength in her arms was leaving rapidly, and she was crumpling forward.

She heard Stephens collapse behind her, grunting as he gave in, and she started to fall too, her vision blurring around the edges as the floor came up to meet her.

A pair of arms circled her, hauling her up roughly. Her head flopped back and she saw the bright lights of the ceiling, could hear bodies and voices storming all around her. She tried to turn her head toward the person holding her but before she could see their face she was swept away on a current of euphoric blackness.

* * *

The hostage situation at City Hall was determined to be the most critical so that's where Gordon was when he got the call that the MCU had been attacked. He took the call on a walkie, turning away from the SWAT team getting ready to infiltrate the building. A lump formed in his throat when they told him there had been some kind of gas attack at the station. They'd never seen anything like it but no one had been killed, just drugged, and the Joker's men had raided lock up. No, they hadn't taken the cocaine seized from the Chinese gangs, they just took all ten barrels of Jonathan Crane's fear toxin.

The SWAT team moved in and the clowns holding the mayor and his team hostage immediately surrendered. Because they weren't really clowns even if they were heavily armed and wearing masks. They were addicts and mentally ill men who fell on the floor pleading for mercy.

_"The boss said it was a good game! Just a game!"_

_"I ain't done nothin' wrong! I swear it!"_

_"Don't hurt me mistah, please!"_

It was the same story in the lobby of Wayne Enterprises, on the D Train at Elm Street Station, and at the First National Bank. Not real Joker cronies, but vulnerable people he'd convinced to play a game to distract the GCPD while he snuck into the MCU like a rat.

Gordon stood over Stephens' hospital bed, letting wave after wave of hatred for the Joker wash over him. He'd spoken to the Batman already; he had his own ideas about what the gas attack had been and was working on a remedy. Until then Stephens and everyone else who had been at the MCU would remain in comas. But for how long, they didn't yet know.

They were only four days into the Joker's new-found freedom and already there had been seven major incidents that could be attributed to him. Gordon caught a cab home. He missed dinner with his kids but his wife was waiting up for him, nursing a glass of wine and looking worried. He fell on his knees in front of her and she wrapped her arms around him, assuring him that it would be okay.

* * *

Harley felt like she was fighting through a snowstorm, her legs trapped in deep snow banks and her vision obscured by thick flurries. She tried to push forward but she was blind and deaf, her body frozen solid. Every now and then a spotlight would appear in the distance and she would try to chase it. Sometimes she came close, so close she almost touched it and it would open up wide, inviting her through. But then she would be dragged backward by the storm, her senses overwhelmed once more.

The first time she woke up all she could see was the snow, but she knew she was awake. All around her were the voices of men in motion and metal and chaos. Then she was swept back under the current, thrown back into the storm.

The second time her eyes fluttered open it was quiet and though her vision was blurry she could still see. She focused on the texture of the gray cloth in front of her. Old and piled up, torn. A seat, she realized, and there were two of them. She was in the back of a car, lying on her side. The car was moving, she could feel the hum of it in her body, as well as sinuous movement beneath her head, and she knew she was laying on another person - their lap maybe.

Fingers were dancing on the side of her neck, taking her pulse, and she tried to shift to see who was touching her. She saw bright purple and she attempted to speak, to protest, to call him a motherfucker, but the effort zapped her strength and she was swept back out into the storm once more.

The third time she didn't have to fight so hard. Her eyes opened slowly and even though she was groggy and dazed she was more awake than she had been in what felt like years. Something was tugging rhythmically on her ponytail and there was a sinewy leg beneath her head, and as her vision cleared she could see she was surrounded by black leather, which she recognized as Bruno's Audi. She was laying across the back seat with her head in someone's lap again.

Not  _just_  someone.

Her body felt like it was full of molten lead so she relied on her eyes, taking in the small details. Killer was in the driver's seat, slouched down and smoking a rolled cigarette. Someone was in the passenger seat too, but she wasn't sure who, all she had to go on was a black hood on the other side of the headrest. And right in front of her eyes were a pair of knees clad in black denim, one of which had a small hole showing a circle of skin. Then she spotted her gym bag on the floor and felt a pulse of hope waggle through her.

They had changed cars if her memory of the gray cloth seats was anything to go by, and it seemed the Joker had changed clothes too. It hadn't been years, obviously, but maybe many hours if the emptiness in her stomach was any indication. She knew rationally she should be much more anxious or pissed off that she was laying there with her head in the Joker's lap while he absentmindedly played with her hair. Whatever drugs were rolling through her system were still there, making her slow and stupid.

She tried to bat the Joker's hand away and she heard him chuckle low in his throat as he pulled back in an uncharacteristic gesture of acquiescence.

"Is she coming around?" A voice from the passenger seat asked, and a youngish man wearing a black hoodie craned his head around the seat to get a look at her. He had a tattoo on his neck - a black 'A' in a jagged circle, the symbol of anarchists - and when he leaned forward to wave a narrow glass vial under her nose, Harley could see he had the same tattoo on the backs of both hands.

She recognized the scent of ammonia wafting from the vial - smelling salts - and inhaled deeply, relishing the rush that helped clear the fog from her brain. It was just enough to give her the energy to move and she rolled onto her back so she was looking up at the Joker.

His unpainted face was hovering above her, and he was gazing down at her curiously, reminding Harley of a children's drawing of a sun with a face. She blinked a few more times until the world came into clearer focus, and as they sized each other up Harley thought,  _I should be terrified_.

"What happened?" She croaked, licking her dry lips and rolling her head to the side to look at the tattooed man in the passenger seat. "What did you do?"

He smiled, but there was no humor or in it, just a calculating kind of smugness that rivaled the Joker's.

"What you're feeling? That's where pharmaceuticals meet the military, Dr Quinzel. It's a whole new world."

"I don't understand," she said, shutting her eyes and taking another deep breath. When she opened them, she knew her dislike for this new man was evident on her face as she said, "And who the hell are you?"

In the driver's seat, Killer cackled happily and took a drag off his cigarette.

"I'm Lonnie," the tattooed man said, shooting Killer a disdainful look.

"Right," Harley nodded slowly. "You're the one with the questions."

Killer laughed again, and Harley could feel the Joker's body quiver beneath her like he was holding back his own laughter. She looked at him and he quirked his eyebrows conspiratorially, the hint of a smile on his scarred lips.

"Yeah, I'm the one with the questions," Lonnie replied, sounding annoyed. "And you're-"

"What happened at the MCU?" Harley interjected, sounding a little more like herself, and she was pleased to hear her voice sounding stronger and impatient instead of weak and emotional. She was putting together what Lonnie said as she sobered up - pharmaceuticals and the military. That meant... "Are you saying you used some kind of chemical weapon on us?"

"That's right," Lonnie confirmed, smirking but not looking amused. "A little something we picked up from Daggett Industries earlier this year."

"Colorless, odorless, opioid-like," Harley mumbled, more to herself than them. She was still tired and eerily-calm -  _chemically_  calm - but at least she could think more clearly now. "Dangerous."

"Strictly off the books, of course," Lonnie added snidely.

"Why," Harley asked next, closing her eyes and sighing. "What was the point in gassing the MCU?"

No one replied.

Harley started to sit up but the Joker stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

"Ah, ta, ta, ta," he said lightly, pushing her back down into his lap. "We're not  _quite_  there yet."

Harley felt a little shiver of irritation but it was so faint she was able to let it go easily, leaving curiosity in its wake.

"Where are we going?" She asked, rolling her eyes to the windshield. It was pitch black out but she could tell they were still in the city from the passing street lamps, though she had no idea what part of town. That was the idea, obviously, they didn't want her to know where they were going.

Again, no one answered her. Lonnie swung back into his seat and Killer crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray, keeping his eyes squarely on the road, and the Joker let his head drop back against the seat so he could stare at the ceiling, leaving his hand wrapped around Harley's shoulder.

It was a heavy, meaningful silence, one Harley knew was designed to keep her in the dark. She remained still, listening to the car purr quietly beneath her, and as she continued to sober up, she became increasingly aware of how  _close_  she was to the Joker. She could feel the rough denim of his jeans against the nape of her neck and she could feel his stomach gurgle against the side of her head. She could smell the sweat and gunpowder clinging to his skin and tobacco on his clothes, like he'd recently had a cigarette. His hand was still on her shoulder, his thumb swiping back and forth along the heavy collar of her coat like a pendulum clock, steady and soothing.

Through the chemically-induced calm, something inside Harley purred contentedly over his attention. Like she'd been waiting for this without realizing it.

Harley tipped her head back so she could see the length of his torso above her. It was strange seeing him in normal clothes instead of the baggy orange scrubs of Arkham or the ridiculous purple suit. He'd changed into a light gray button-down shirt, which was tucked neatly into his black jeans, and a straight black jacket with a pair of dark sunglasses tucked into the breast pocket. If it weren't for the fact that his hair was still off-puttingly green, she would have thought he'd be able to get away with roaming the streets of Gotham with a pair of shades and no need to worry about being stopped.

As if he could feel her staring, the Joker dipped his chin down, so he was facing her again. He lifted one amused eyebrow as if to say,  _whaddya lookin' at?_ , and Harley - maybe because of the fading chemical weapon high, maybe because she was losing her mind - responded by smiling sweetly up at him.

His eyes widened, not quite surprised but definitely intrigued, and his head tipped to the side like a curious cat as he studied her.

The car rolled to a stop and the engine cut out, and Harley's eyes darted to her gym bag where it sat behind the driver's seat while she listened to Killer and Lonnie climb out of the car. She was feeling more springy now than she had even five minutes earlier - enough to potentially make a break for it - but was there really any point? Perhaps it was the drugs lulling her into a false sense of security, but Harley wasn't so sure she had anything to  _really_  be worried about. She had been safely returned home once before and the only reason she was there now was she'd accidentally been caught up  _yet again_  in one of his heists. The consultation she'd agreed to would have been sans-Joker otherwise.

The car door near her feet opened outwards, revealing Lonnie with his arms crossed, looking annoyed.

"Are you guys coming or what?" He snapped, and Harley looked up at the Joker to see how he would react to such blatant disrespect from his henchmen, but he only chuckled and released Harley's shoulder.

She sat up quickly, scooting across the backseat before he could roughly shove or yank her like he'd done at the museum in his haste to get her to moving. She snatched up her gym back and climbed out of the car, her legs still a little wobbly, and sucked in a lungful of the crisp night air, which helped to sweep away the last, lingering cobwebs from her mind as she took in her surroundings.

They were obviously still on the east side of town, with its narrow brick buildings from different decades leaning against one another like old trees in the forest. They had parked in a small lot flanked by two taller buildings with one squat one between them, lit by one ancient lamppost that was bent over so far it was nearly kissing the ground. On the left of the shorter building was an old laundromat, its windows smashed and the washers and dryers laying broken across its floor. From where she stood Harley could see the chalk outline of a body inside.

The other side of the building was in better condition, housing a pub with a cracked wooden sign declaring it The Three Doves. Harley held her gym bag close to her chest, fingering the Beretta through the nylon as she watched the Joker stretch his arms over his head in an exaggerated yawn while Lonnie and Killer drifted toward the pub. No one tried to push her or drag her with them, like it was expected she would come without a fight.

This was a prime opportunity for escape, she realized. She had a weapon, she had a phone, she could run in the other direction with a relatively high chance of a successful escape.

The Joker dropped his arms down from his yawn, using the momentum to swing around to face Harley and raise a curious eyebrow at her -  _uh, are you coming or not?,_  it said.

Harley chewed her bottom lip. She felt sober now but she still wasn't scared. Maybe because he wasn't painted up like a psychotic clown while he grabbed her and shoved her around. Maybe he just wasn't in an especially cruel or violent mood this evening.

She tried to remember what he was capable of as she trailed after Killer and Lonnie with him on her heels. The pub's 'Closed' sign was on but it wasn't locked. Killer planted himself beside the door, lighting up what smelled like a joint while Lonnie pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold with the familiarity of a regular.

Inside, the pub stank of stale beer and old cigarettes, and in the background, the punchy notes of The Clash's 'Should I Stay or Should I Go' played from a jukebox. The place looked like a watering hole for British ex-pats, with a long bar dotted with brass fittings and an Irish flag hanging on the wall. There was a line of booths along one wall, all of them empty. The entire pub was empty aside from a muscled barkeep with closely cropped red hair manning the Guinness tap.

He looked up when the door slammed shut, taking note of each of them in turn and lingering on Harley but not, she noticed, the Joker.

"Hey, Murphy," Lonnie greeted the barman, without warmth.

"Y'alright, Lonnie," Murphy replied in a thick Irish brogue, returning his attention to the beer he was pouring. "Ye want drinks?"

"Yeah, sure," Lonnie replied, moving toward a booth at the back. He glanced back at Harley, who had stopped to gaze around the pub until the Joker prodded her in the back with a sharp finger that made her yelp and glare at him over her shoulder.

He chuckled and pushed her again, but not with the excessive force she had come to expect from him, and as Harley slid into the booth, she was bizarrely reminded of little boys pulling girls' pigtails on the playground, reinforced further when the Joker slid in beside her, scooting close so she was crowded up against the wall. She shot him another dirty look, but he pretended not to see it, draping his arm over the back of the booth and crossing his ankle over his knee, effectively taking up all the space.

"Here y'are lads," Murphy the barkeep said briskly, dropping a trio of Guinness onto the table, which was sticky with decades of slopped beer.

Lonnie and the Joker each grabbed a pint and took a few healthy gulps while Harley stared at the third pint of stout, then glanced between her... kidnappers? Or were they clients now? She wasn't sure what to make of the situation. It was entirely too strange for the Joker to be sitting beside her wearing skinny jeans and drinking a beer with his pal like he was some sort of  _normal_  person. It had to be a farce designed to fuck with her.

"Ya got any of those... uh,  _pies_  left?" the Joker flashed the barkeep a snide grin, showing off a row of yellowed teeth and Murphy nodded quickly, keeping his eyes on the floor.

"Course' boss. Three of em'? He rushed away before the Joker could answer, and Harley thought for someone running a pub catering to criminals, Murphy the barkeep didn't have a very strong stomach. Then again, to call the Joker off-putting would be generous, and most people recoiled him aside from sycophants like Killer or men like Lonnie and Bruno who Harley hadn't figured out yet.

Harley supposed she wasn't recoiling from him either, and she reminded herself again of being strangled and threatened and manhandled like a piece of meat  _just_  the night before.

"Dr Quinzel," Lonnie started, angling for professional. "Thanks for agreeing to come to talk to us. It was uh,  _fortuitous_  that you happened to be at the station today."

"Uh huh," Harley replied drily, pushing the Guinness away. "I'd be very interested to hear more about how Daggett Industries are developing chemical weapons."

"I wouldn't know anything about that," Lonnie said airily, pulling the sleeves of his hoodie down to cover his hands. "I'd be very interested to hear more about Jonathan Crane's fear toxin."

At first, Harley was too stunned to react because the request was so far out of left field. She hadn't spared Crane even half a thought since the Joker's escape. He seemed like a little fish to her now, and she hadn't considered that anyone aside from her would be interested in his fear toxin...

"You stole it from the MCU, didn't you," Harley accused, as it dawned on her why they'd attacked the station. "What the hell are you planning on doing with it?"

"Plans are for the elite schemers who run this city," Lonnie sneered, making Harley roll her eyes.

"Sure," she scoffed. "Because all the trouble you've gone through in the last few days hasn't required extensive planning."

Lonnie shot the Joker a look that bordered on pleading, but the Joker just shrugged in response, not bothered by her accusation that they were hypocrites.

"What are you going to do with it?" Harley repeated, not interested in arguing over the semantics of their philosophy, not with someone who had anarchist symbols tattooed in plain sight.

"That's not important," the Joker interjected smoothly, his eyelids growing heavy as he stared at a spot in the wall over Lonnie's shoulder. "But Lonnie here is a little...  _freaked out_  that he's gonna go  _crazy_ if he opens it without knowing all the  _facts_  first."

Harley looked at the Joker and then at Lonnie in turn, finally starting to understand what this powwow was really about and where Lonnie fit into the Joker's circle of goons and henchmen.

"What do you want to know?" She sighed reluctantly, her eyes drifting to the Joker, who was staring straight ahead like he was transfixed by the wall across from him.

Lonnie leaned forward. "When Crane attacked the Narrows with the toxin he stole a microwave emitter from Wayne Enterprises. Why?"

"The toxin only works as an inhalant," Harley explained, folding her hands around the pint glass. "As a liquid it does nothing. Jonathan pumped hundreds of gallons of it into the drinking water but they needed the microwave emitter to vaporize the toxin."

"They?" the Joker said lightly.

Harley skipped over the business with the League of Shadows, reasoning the least she could do for Crane was let people believe he hadn't been taken advantage of by a secret society of ninjas.

"The inmates," she said evasively. "He had them working on the toxin in the basement."

"That's fucking creepy," Lonnie said drily. "So it has to be vaporized to work. What about vapors coming off the liquid?"

"You really  _are_  freaked out by it, aren't you?" Harley smirked, enjoying how flustered Lonnie got over the comment. "The inmates wore gas masks when they were working with the undiluted toxin."

Murphy returned then, balancing three plates piled high with mashed potatoes and savory meat pies slathered in gravy. Harley nearly jumped out of her seat to grab a plate, not realizing how hungry she was. After a few heavenly mouthfuls, she pulled back, feeling self-conscious about shoveling food into her mouth like an animal, but the Joker and Lonnie were eating like they hadn't seen food in years, so she just shrugged and dove back in.

"So, what does it do?" Lonnie asked around a mouthful of food. "How did Crane come up with it?"

"It's a psychotropic hallucinogen," Harley explained, pushing her plate away once her stomach was suitably full. "Jonathan's specialty is psychopharmacology. He was - still is, really - one of the foremost experts in the country."

"Fancy," Lonnie sneered, like being a respected expert was somehow distasteful. "So it's like mushrooms?"

"It's  _slightly_  more complicated than that," Harley replied, eyeing Lonnie warily. "It targets the part of the brain that interprets threats and releases stress hormones which create a physical response to stimuli. Those hormones stimulate the fear receptors in your brain, and you begin to process all incoming data through the lens of that fear." When Lonnie just stared at her blankly, clearly uncomprehending she added, with no small amount of condescension. "That means everything around you turns into your worst nightmare. Everything you see or hear or taste or smell - your brain tells you to fear all of it."

"Uh huh," Lonnie said running his tongue over his teeth. "So it's like mushrooms."

" _No,"_  Harley snapped, growing impatient. "Imagine when something startles you, that tingle of fear that runs up your spine. Sometimes, it actually feels nice, right? Because once it's gone, you feel relief." She felt the Joker turn to look at her when she said this. "But with the fear toxin, there is no relief. It's constant, unending waves of panic, each more fresh and new than the last. And if you're given a high enough dose, it will _never_  stop until you are administered an antidote or sedated or your heart just gives out."

Harley glanced sideways at the Joker, who was eyeing her curiously, a little line forming between his eyebrows as he considered her. Their eyes met briefly, and one side of his mouth curled into a lazy smirk before he shot Lonnie a knowing look Harley was unsure how to interpret. _._

"What constitutes a heavy dose?" Lonnie continued, looking disgruntled.

"Well, a microwave emitter vaporizing the drinking water would definitely qualify as a big dose," Harley said thoughtfully. "But the dose Crane gave Carmine Falcone was enough to drive him insane, and that was administered in one of the session rooms at Arkham. It would have had to come from the calibrated canisters he developed to administer the toxin."

She felt the Joker tense up when she mentioned Carmine Falcone, and she shot him a curious look of her own.

"And where are these canisters now?" Lonnie pushed.

"They were confiscated and destroyed," Harley said, the corner of her mouth twitching when she saw Lonnie's face darken. "Guess you'll just have to make your own."

"Uh huh," Lonnie replied, barely concealing his disdain. "So you and Crane are pretty good friends, huh?"

"Professional acquaintances," Harley corrected. "I respect his work and his mind, and since he's stuck in Arkham I used the opportunity to find out more about both."

"That's pretty cold," Lonnie observed and Harley rolled her eyes, declining to dignify the comment with a response.

Lonnie took a thoughtful sip of his beer and Harley waited for him to ask more questions - though she didn't have many more answers she would willingly share - but the next question never came. Did that mean she was done for the evening? That they would give her a bag of cash and send her on her way?

The pub's door opened again, and two huge bodies pushed through, one of them grunting a greeting at Murphy as they settled onto a couple of stools and ordered beers, muttering to each other out of the corners of their mouths.

Harley immediately recognized one of the voices as Joey Nash, the inmate she'd prescribed countless hours of shock therapy and solitary confinement and unnecessary spinal taps too. A shiver of anxiety rippled through her as she imagined a variety of creative altercations that could arise if Nash noticed her. Surely not while she was sitting beside the Joker?

"Is there anything else?" Harley asked, keeping her voice low so Nash wouldn't hear her. "Or can I go home?"

"Yeah," Lonnie agreed warily. "Fine. Bruno's outside now, he'll pay you and take you home."

Harley nodded, no longer surprised by anything, and started to edge her way out of the booth. But the Joker didn't move, he just stayed where he was staring at the wall until Harley cleared her throat. His eyes rolled toward her, one eyebrow lifted in a question.

"Yessss...?"

"I'm leaving," Harley told him coldly.

"Aww," he cooed, tipping his head to the side as he looked her over quickly. "I guess  _this_  time it really  _is_  goodbye?"

"I guess so," Harley replied lightly, feeling a twinge of disappointment as he slid out of the booth to let her pass. She didn't know what that disappointment meant, but the effects of the Daggett drug had worn off, leaving her with a mountain of questionable feelings she didn't expect to figure out.

Bruno was waiting for her at the bar, sitting close to the door with an untouched highball next to his elbow. Harley offered him a wave and gestured to communicate that she was going to the bathroom, and Bruno flashed her a thumb's up. It was  _too_ normal, and Harley shook her head as she headed for the bathroom, bewildered by the evening's events.

In the bathroom, she peed and washed her hands, then stood in front of the cracked mirror above the sink, sighing as she smoothed the pieces of hair that had come loose from her ponytail to the side. Against the backdrop of the filthy bathroom, she looked ridiculous in her athleisurewear and sneakers, but also pale and exhausted with pupils the size of nickels. The next day she would need to go to Arkham and perhaps she would go see Jonathan to tell him what had happened. He was practically the only person she could talk to honstly anymore...

The bathroom door slammed open then, crashing into the wall, and Harley spun around to see Nash storming toward her. His face was contorted in a terrifying expression of rage, his teeth bared like a wild animal, his eyes bright but unfocused. It occurred to Harley that she should scream, but she only backed up into the tiled wall between two hand dryers, too shocked to do anything but stare wide eyed.

Nash swung at her with a roar and Harley ducked just in time to miss his fist. It connected with the wall where her head had just been, cracking the tiles. She bowed under his arm with the intention of running for her life but she wasn't quick enough. Nash's arm closed around her waist and he hauled her up off her feet, furiously spitting his familiar rant of  _"YOU BITCH! YOU WHORE!"_

He punched her in the diaphragm, leaving her gasping and wriggling furiously as Nash roared mindlessy and rushed her forward into the bathroom sink, crushing her with his weight and pinning her there. Harley grit her teeth and struggled against him as he grabbed a handful of her hair and forced her head down, still roaring and screaming and threatening her as she tried to slither free.

Harley had become all too familiar with panic lately, but this time she surprised by herself. Even with a man three times her size threatening to  _rape_  her while he held her down, she wasn't losing her mind to blind fear. No, this time she was simply pissed off. She released her own shout of frustration and stamped down on Nash's foot, making him blither and spit as he issued familiar threats. She thrust her elbows back into his gut, thrashing wildly as his roaring grew louder and more inhuman.

Then suddenly there were more bodies and voices in the bathroom and Nash was being dragged off her. She was free. She straightened up and swung around, breathing hard as adrenaline surged through her body like a bolt of lightning.

Bruno and the other big man who'd been drinking at the bar were holding Nash back - and not without some difficulty - and then Murphy the barkeep strode in and laid Nash out with a punch that made his head snap to the side.

"Ya fookin' crazy bastard!" Murphy spat furiously, throwing another punch and then a third. "Who tha fook do ya think y'are comin' in here!" Four, five, six.

Nash was sagging between Bruno and the other thug, his face a swollen, bloody pulp. Harley watched with wide eyes, unaccustomed to seeing such blatant, unapologetic violence but also...  _transfixed_  by it.

At some point the Joker slipped in, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe as he watched the scene unfold with vague interest. When he cleared his throat, Murphy stopped short of landing another punch, lowering his fist and stepping back obediently.

"Well, well,  _well,"_  the Joker drawled, strolling up to Nash with his hands folded behind his back. The tone in the room shifted into something  _much_  more sinister as the Joker squinted at Nash, tisking in exaggerated disappointment. "I mean, Joey,  _pal._  I thought we were  _friends._  You can't just go around... uh..." he waved his hand, searching for the word. " _Attacking_  people willy- _nilly_."

Nash groaned, and a fat drop of blood slid down his chin, landing on his shirt.

"Uh huh," the Joker grunted, taking a step back and spinning around to face Harley, who was using the sink to keep herself on her feet. "Harl?" He gestured to Nash, his lips twitching into a sneaky smirk he didn't bother to hide. "Wanna uh... take a  _swing?"_

Harley could see it was a test, not just some benevolent gesture, but she didn't know how to react to the invitation. She didn't want to give the Joker leverage but she also  _very_  much wanted to take advantage of the offer. She understood how these men worked now, and there was no way Nash would live out the night. She might as well indulge herself and do what she'd wanted to do to Nash for  _months_  now.

Now that the Joker had put the idea out there, the other men were looking at Harley with varying degrees of curiosity, confusion, and surprise.

She stepped forward hesitantly and was surprised when Murphy offered her a pair of brass knuckles. Her heart lurched in her chest as she clumsily slid three fingers into the brass knuckles. They were warm and too big and she could smell the blood on them, and somehow all of those things made her feel _empowered_.

She squared off with Nash, who was groaning and bleeding profusely from his nose and mouth, his face already starting to swell up.

Her fingers curled into a fist around the brass knuckles as she tentatively drew her arm back, and Bruno flinched when she punched Nash in the nose.

Harley didn't know how to throw a real punch, but the force behind her fist made something  _crunch_ , sending blood spurting down Nash's face and over Harley's hand. She inhaled a shuddering breath, excitement rolling over her skin as she stared at the blood dripping down the back of her hand.

She could feel the room collectively holding its breath as they waited for her to make another move, and then Nash made the mistake of speaking.

"You fuckin'  _whore..._  I'm gonna.. _. fuck_  you," he slurred weakly, glaring at her hatefully.

Harley's expression soured, her lip curling and eyes narrowing, and from there, things got a bit hazy.

She lurched forward, using her fists and then her nails to attack Nash until he was screaming and swooning. She clawed at his face and neck, gritting her teeth as she removed a stripe of skin from his cheek. She wished she had something heavy she could use to smash his head in. She wanted to  _crush_  him.

Then Bruno dropped one of Nash's arms and the other thug obediently followed suit, and Nash fell to his knees. He pitched forward, landing face first on the floor, his body wracked with sobs.

Harley's head was spinning. She felt dizzy and exhilarated and like she was suffocating all at once. She spun on her heel, determined to get away and desperately in need of fresh air to clear her head.

The Joker was leaning casually against the bathroom wall, and she met his eye as she passed him. His face was cold now, calculating as he prodded the scars inside his cheek with his tongue. He quirked his eyebrows twice when their eyes met, and Harley had to smother the impulse to punch him as well.

She speed walked through the pub and out the door, throwing the brass knuckles aside so they rattled across the floor. The sun was starting to rise as she rushed for Bruno's car, sucking down lungfuls of fresh air. She couldn't decipher the emotions pulsing through her alongside the buckets of endorphins and endocrine, but she knew she felt  _strong_  in a way she'd never experienced before. It had been like the night she'd destroyed her apartment or the day she'd nearly fainted at Arkham or  _that_  night with her college boyfriend, that same head-spinning mania, but this time she felt in control. She felt free from fear of  _herself_ , which made her  _powerful_.

She could hear Bruno behind her as she waited for him by the car. He unlocked it silently and they climbed in. Harley wiped her bloodied fingers on her thigh before she opened the glove compartment to search for the mask she would inevitably be required to wear. She pulled it on then buckled her seat belt, breathing deeply through her nose to calm her rapidly beating heart.

* * *

The Joker watched Harley storm away, a slow smirk growing on his lips when she tossed the brass knuckles aside and they skidded across the floor, her blonde ponytail swinging as she left the pub.

Bruno shot the Joker a bewildered look as he hurried after her, and the Joker shrugged helplessly, unable to dial back his grin as he swung around to deal with Nash - or what she'd  _left_  of Nash anyway.

The Joker squatted down beside the bloodied man, pulling a jackknife from his jacket pocket.

 _Christ,_  he thought as he slit Nash's throat,  _she was just too cute._

* * *

**A/N: Ah Harley. Becoming more comfortable with her anti-social desire for violence but still so judgy about the psychopaths around her doing exactly the same thing. Cognitive Dissonance at its finest.**

**Next week: 'Normal' life resumes for Harley until Penguin comes calling, and tensions with the Joker reach a boiling point.**

**Please comment! I live for feedback.**


	8. Chapter 8

The Harlequin

8.

* * *

Bruno didn't say a word during the drive home, but Harley could feel the uneasiness rolling off him in waves as if he'd expressed it out loud. Bruno was uneasy over her: Harley. It was hard to believe.

She trusted he would drive her home because where else would he take her? A field to shoot her in the back of the head? Maybe, but Harley was inclined to think if the Joker wanted to kill her, she'd be dead already.

It was a short drive, maybe twenty minutes, to her building, and when the Audi rolled to a stop, Harley swiftly pulled off the sleeping mask and stuffed it in the glove compartment. Bruno handed her a padded envelope, which she realized was her consulting fee, and she snatched it out of his hand without thanking him and reached for the door. But then something occurred to her, and she hesitated, not sure if she should ask, before plowing ahead and asking it anyway.

"Will they kill him?" She didn't look at Bruno, just waited for him to reply.

"Yeah," he said cautiously. "Can't let one of our boys get away with something like that."

"Good," Harley said shortly and pushed the car door open without looking back.

* * *

She slept until late afternoon, waking up to texts from Blakely, Walsh, and Gordon asking if she was okay / ever coming in again / could come to the station in a few days when they'd finished fumigating. Harley dutifully replied, 'Yes' to all and went back to sleep, not ready to face the world.

Her dreams were confusing. Squishing a grape between her fingers until the juice ran down her hand. The sensation of a warm body pressed up against her naked back. Running terrified through a darkness so complete and permanent, she nearly choked on it.

The next morning, she returned to Arkham, well-rested but feeling distinctly like something was missing. She could only assume it was the prospect of continuing with her life as if nothing had happened to her. As if she hadn't gone for a beer with the Joker and his accomplice and then beat - to the best of her ability - a former patient. Nash's body was likely at the bottom of Gotham Harbor by now, but that certainly didn't bother her.

Perhaps it should have, but she was past caring about what she should do.

That didn't explain what was missing.

Most of her day was spent going through thousands of emails, including twenty from the Gazette's Vicki Vale begging Harley for an interview. Vale's not-so-subtle suggestion that they could expose Walsh as a leaker was tempting, but in the end, Harley ignored her, opting to focus on the new Elliot trial that would start in the coming weeks.

And of course, there were the drills and procedures to memorize for the extensive new security precautions Arkham put in place in the event of another breakout.

Lots to keep her busy.

In the evening, Harley sat beside Penguin's and Killer's burner phones, waiting for them to ring or for a text to appear. They didn't, and she hated the intensity with which she wanted one of them to reach out to her. Why? She was needed and appreciated in her career, why was she so eager for their validation? Or maybe it wasn't validation she craved, but just something different.

She cut off that train of thought, took an old sleeping pill, and went to bed.

* * *

Days passed, and Harley moved through her life like a ghost. She worked and went to the gym and slept and repeated the process.

After a week Gordon got in touch to say the MCU was safe to enter without a gas mask and please could she come to give her statement when she had time. So, Harley went to the MCU after work one night and gave the same account she'd given Stephens.

When she'd finished, Gordon leaned back in his desk chair and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.

"Are you alright?" Harley asked gingerly.

"I can't help feeling like something is coming." Gordon shook his head. "He's been quiet for a week. He has to be planning something."

Harley pressed her lips together thoughtfully. "Don't you think the Batman will probably help you? I mean, even though he... killed Harvey Dent."

Gordon's mustache twitched, and Harley could see the guilt in his eyes. Guilt about lying to Gotham. Guilt about tarnishing the Batman's reputation. Guilt about not being able to beat the Joker even if he'd caught him once before.

"Maybe," Gordon said reluctantly. "We need to get inside the Joker's head. Anticipate his next move - maybe you could help with that?"

He handed her paperwork detailing the fees for officially consulting on MCU cases, and Harley numbly flipped through the many sheets of legal documents, promising she would help wherever she could.

Stephens was still in a coma from the gas attack, so Gordon was blissfully unaware that Harley had been at the station that day. She supposed the only reason she wasn't in a coma was the Joker or one of his minions got her out of the station fast enough that she wasn't exposed to the gas as long as Stephens. But one day he would wake up and tell Gordon she'd been there, and that would not be an ideal situation for Harley.

She contemplated calling in that favor with Penguin to have Stephens 'taken care of', but she knew she wouldn't go through with it.

Or at least, she wasn't ready to go through with it  _yet_.

Another week passed with nothing of consequence. In an attempt to lift herself out of the numbing banality of life, Harley treated herself. She bought a new laptop to replace the one she'd smashed. She made an appointment to get her hair highlighted to a brighter blonde, something she hadn't done for herself in years. She loathed shopping but needed new clothes, so she sat up late on her new laptop, picking out items that were brighter and better cut and a fraction less conservative than her usual wardrobe.

It helped a little bit. Doing things for herself was a nice change of pace, but it only scratched the surface of the crushing monotony.

After work, she bought a few bottles of beer on her way home, the promise of watching re-runs of  _Made in the Diamond District_  the only thing keeping her going. The apartment was still a quasi-disaster zone, but the danger of having police in her home had passed. The GCPD wanted her as a consultant, so all she had to do was not end up at another Joker-related crime-scene and provide useful-sounding information about his state of mind when they asked for it.

She settled in on the couch with a beer in hand as the opening credits for _Made in the Diamond District_  rolled on her laptop. Ivania Dumas twirling in an evening gown then posing with her hand on her hip; Bobby Kane swinging a tennis racket and flashing the camera a Colgate-grin; Kennedy Kane slapping Edward Crowne across the face before they posed back-to-back with secretive smiles. And so on.

Somewhere in the apartment, a phone beeped - the loud, aggressive beep of an old burner phone - and Harley jumped to her feet so quickly she slopped beer down her shirt. She nearly sprinted to the bedroom and vaulted over the bed where three phones were lined up on her bedside table charging. It was Penguin's phone, flashing blue as it rattled and vibrated.

She sat down slowly on the bed and picked up the phone.

_Harley! My dear, it's been too long! It would seem our mutual friend has become reclusive after his dramatic re-emergence! I wonder if you might help me connect with him? Do let me know! :)_

Harley laid down on her side to re-read the message three times, then rolled onto her back to stare at the ceiling, already knowing what she would do. She told herself it was a strategic move, that she would do it because Penguin would owe her a  _second_  favor. Maybe 'taking care' of Stephens, or maybe helping her out of some unforeseen future crisis.

There were warring factions inside her, pulling her in two directions, but both sides were far from equal in their strength now. That it was immoral and dangerous and anti-social to act as Penguin's go-between with the Joker was obvious... but she just didn't care anymore. There might be consequences, but she would face them head-on, and whatever happened next, she would take it in stride.

With the critical eye of a teenager trying not to sound over-eager, Harley typed out a quick message on the phone Killer had given her and sent it to the only number stored.

_Penguin wants to meet you._

* * *

The Joker was recruiting.

It was a messy business, finding the right kind of guys to join the team. You had your wiseguys, your gangsters, your petty thieves, and your flat out crazies, and all of them came with different baggage. The best ones were idiots, and there were  _plenty_  of idiots.

Another Maroni rat snuck into this group, and this time, the Joker wanted to send a more explicit message. Two of the boys were holding the rat down, forcing one of his arms out to the side. The Joker pressed the barrel of a shotgun to the rat's elbow and pulled the trigger, the force of the blast making him rock back on his heels. The rat screamed and screamed and screamed.

"Ohhh, does it hurt?" the Joker squatted down, using the shotgun for balance as he watched the man's face contort in horror when he caught sight of his severed forearm. "We can wrap that up for ya? Take it to go? Hehe...heh."

The rat only screamed louder, and the Joker straightened back up, waving him off. Too much  _drama._

He could feel vibrations radiating from the depths of his coat and palmed at the material until he located the burner he'd been carrying on his person at all times for the past two weeks. When he checked the flashing blue screen and read the message waiting for him there, a profoundly satisfied smirk slid onto his lips.

_Penguin wants to meet you._

Oh, now  _that_  was interesting.

The Joker carefully re-read those five words as he wandered into a room covered in choo-choo train wallpaper with a set of bunk beds in the corner. He flopped down on the bottom bunk and kicked his feet up, the tension that had carried him through three sleepless days leaving his body as he contemplated a reply.

For two weeks he'd been carrying this phone around, knowing full well she had its mate. He'd been curious to see what she would do - if she would do anything at all - about this last thread connecting them. Now here it was. And  _what_  a twist in the plot. Another fascinating choice by Harley Quinzel.

At Arkham, the whole entertainingly nihilistic cute doctor schtick helped keep his head above water, helped keep him  _sane_ since the guards were no fun.

But it turned out that outside the walls of that stifling institution, her choices were  _far_  more intriguing.

The Joker ran his thumb over the phone's buttons, contemplating his reply carefully as his thoughts drifted back to the night at the pier. Terrified and weak until he put a gun in her hand, forcing his weird little doctor to make the ultimate choice, and her choice had been... unexpected and  _perfect_. His eyes nearly rolled back in his head thinking about it now. Who  _was_  this person he'd stumbled across? What was she  _really_  capable of?

That was why the Joker kept this phone on him.  _Just_  in case the opportunity arose to watch her make more _fascinating_ choices.

Maybe he'd give her a chance to make a few more, but in the meantime, here she was making herself useful to his work.

Un-be-lievable.

He typed out a few different responses ranging in tone and temperament, his eyes rolling thoughtfully to the ceiling before he deleted what he'd written and started again. Eventually, he settled on simple and to the point. Businesslike because this  _was_  business after all.

_Tomorrow night. Bruno will pick you up._

The Joker sent the message, excitement rippling through his gut as he waited for her to reply. He kicked off his shoes and tried to get comfortable, but there was too much impatient energy coursing through him to stay still. Too much anticipation over what she might say or do.

_Fine_ , she texted back.

Her message made him chuckle quietly. That rebellious streak could get her in trouble one day.

* * *

There was another Escape/Riot drill for staff at Arkham the next day. Harley spent two long hours waiting behind the asylum near the infirmary entrance with the nursing team and other doctors. Walsh complained noisily the whole time while the nurses and Blakely sent him disgusted looks. Harley stood off to the side, examining the crumbling housing on the other side of the barbed wire fence. She wondered what it must be like to live in that building, knowing there was a facility full of psychotic murderers and rapists right next door.

The Narrows had been a mostly unpopulated island when the asylum was initially built over a hundred years earlier, but thanks to urban sprawl it was now packed full of people, and Arkham was squished right in the center of it all.

And yet the powers that be decided it was the safest place to keep the Joker.

Idiots.

The rest of Harley's day was consumed with admitting patients sent over from county. Most had taken part in the Joker's faux-hostage situations intended to distract the cops from his MCU break-in. Harley designated all of them to A Wing though she felt many should have been housed in non-criminal institutions. But the Joker had whispered in their ears, and now they were confined to Arkham.

As the afternoon dragged into evening, anticipation leaked into Harley's blood, and by the time she caught the metro home, she was pacing up and down the graffiti-strewn carriage, unable to sit or focus.

She knew she was acting like an over-eager teenage girl as she got ready, meticulously choosing slim pants and a silk blouse in an intentional fuck you to the Iceberg Lounge's cocktail casual dress code for women. She smudged her lips scarlet and brushed out her blonde hair until it flowed in fluffy waves to her shoulders.

She felt like she was getting ready for a date, which wasn't as crazy as it sounded. It would be an important meeting between two of the most dangerous men she knew, and they both wanted her there to facilitate. What about that wasn't there to be sick with anticipation over? Maybe for a hardened criminal, a simple meeting wasn't something special, but Harley was no criminal. She had no idea what to expect, and something was freeing - and  _terrifying_  - about that unknown.

At ten, she stepped into a pair of kitten heels and slid on her winter coat, then headed for the square outside her building where she found Bruno waiting with the Audi.

Through the darkly tinted glass, she could see there was someone in the front seat, so Harley climbed into the back, slightly disappointed to find it empty.

"Hey, Harley," Bruno greeted her with a grim smile.

"Hey Bruno," she replied lightly, closing the door and putting on her seat belt.

"This is Bambi," Bruno explained, hiking a thumb at the man in the passenger seat. He was another man with the physique of a WWE champion and looked a little like Mr Clean with a bald head and a large gold hoop in one ear.

"Hi Bambi," Harley said, receiving nothing but cold silence in return.

She wondered what kind of story was behind a nickname like that.

As Bruno started the car and pulled out of the square, he made no excuses for the lack of Joker in their midst. Harley doubted he would have sent henchmen in his place to meet Penguin, but then again, it was hard to anticipate anything the Joker did, which always gave him the upper hand.

They drove Uptown in near silence except for Elvis crooning softly about love and pain on the radio. Bruno and Bambi didn't speak, and Harley kept her mouth shut too, spending the drive working through what it would take to get the upper hand over the Joker.

The Audi rolled to a stop in the middle of a backstreet and Harley heard a car door open and slam shut nearby. Then the door opposite her flew open, and the Joker flung himself onto the seat beside her, slamming the door once his feet were safely inside.

" _Drive,_ " he snapped, and Bruno dutifully laid his foot down on the accelerator.

The Joker had donned his violently-violet three-piece suit again, his face sloppily but freshly painted. It was arresting but not as startling as the first time Harley saw him like this, and she tried not to stare as he slouched down in his seat, letting his long legs splay out in front of him as he raked his fingers through his hair, which was fading from sickly green back his natural sandy brown.

He rolled his head toward Harley once they were back out on the main street, and she met his gaze evenly despite her heart leaping in her throat.

" _Hi_ ," he flashed her a nasty little smile, showing off a line of yellowed teeth in an intentionally grotesque display, something she'd seen him do before when he wanted to unnerve people.

"Hi," she replied stiffly, immediately on her guard.

"It was  _awful_  nice of you to set this up," he continued, almost flirtatiously. "Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy knowing you and Penguin are  _pals_."

Harley shot him a bemused look, unsure what he was getting at. "I'm not his pal."

"Oh,  _really?"_  His eyes widened, feigning surprise. "Here I was thinkin' you two were the  _best_  of friends."

"No, you don't," Harley muttered, looking out the window. She didn't know why, but she was disappointed he was trying to mess with her. He'd been civil to her when she last saw him, but aside from that strange evening at the Irish pub, he'd only ever been openly antagonistic and physically violent toward her whenever they were in the same room and he wasn't chained down.

What had she been expecting from tonight?

"Nah, I don't really," he huffed, draping his arm along the back of the seat and turning his full attention on her. She could feel him examining her. "But if I were a  _betting_  man I'd say you're not my biggest fan right now considering...  _ya know..."_

"Ya know," Harley laughed incredulously, keeping her eyes trained out the window. "Ya know? Like kidnapping me, threatening me,  _drugging_  me."

He moved quickly, scrambling across the backseat until he had one knee planted beside Harley's thigh, and his arm braced against the headrest behind Harley's head, crowding her into the door. She turned her head away from him, determinedly avoiding his narrowed stare.

"Uh  _huh,"_  he leaned in closer, the acrid smell of greasepaint filling her nose and mouth. "Yet _here_  you are... Makes me think the  _smart_  money is on an  _ambush."_

Harley said nothing. She didn't feel especially threatened, even with him invading her personal space. She was more annoyed that he was trying to intimidate her with the psychotic clown act, which she was pleased to discover was not working as well as it had the night of the gala.

"You wouldn't do that to me... would ya Harl?" He dipped his chin down, staring at her hard.

Harley finally turned to look at him, meeting his gaze coldly. There were only a few centimeters between them, and this close Harley could see his eyes were a very dark brown, not black. She could also see he didn't really think she'd set up an ambush; he just wanted to fuck with her to put her in her place. But even though he still posed a very deadly threat, Harley couldn't find the fear any rational person would be feeling in response to him.

So she continued to hold his gaze coolly, daring him to prove he was as dangerous as his posturing suggested.

He eyed her back curiously, licking his lips as the stared each other down, then his head bobbed back, just enough for Harley to feel like she'd won some small victory, and it emboldened her.

"Of course not," she breathed, widening her eyes and playing innocent as he was so fond of doing. "Why... I could  _never_  do that to you."

He took a long second to blink, absorbing that she was mocking him, then threw his head back as a hysterical peal of laughter jumped past his lips. He fell backward away from her, howling as he landed on his back across the seats and cracked his head against the door. The car rolled to a stop, but he carried on howling, clutching his ribs like he was in pain.

Suddenly desperate for fresh air, Harley scrambled out of the car before Bruno had even turned the engine off. She slammed the door behind her and leaned against it, folding her arms over her stomach as she breathed deeply to clear her head and calm her nerves before she took in her surroundings.

They were in the narrow alley behind the Iceberg Lounge, parked a few feet away from two thugs in suits guarding a silver door marked "EMPLOYEES ONLY." The thugs were watching their rag-tag group warily, puffing out their chests and palming the pistols tucked neatly into holsters at their sides. Harley shoved her hands in her coat pockets and strode up to the guards, eager to put distance between her and the Joker as he clambered out of the car behind her.

"Mr Cobblepot is expecting us," she informed the thugs with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

The thugs looked at each other and then behind Harley where the Joker was brushing imagined dust off his shoulder.

"Time is money gents," he reminded them gruffly, loping forward until he was beside Harley. He flashed them the same sickly grin he'd shown her earlier. "So why dontcha get out of the way, hmm?"

"Yes, sir," one thug replied obediently, practically jumping to the side while the other ushered them through the backdoor into a narrow hallway lined with wooden crates of Champagne. They stopped there so the thugs could pat down Bruno and Bambi, noting their weapons but not confiscating them. When it was Harley and the Joker's turn the thugs looked at each other and seemed to agree it wasn't worth the risk, and ushered their group into the shiny, unused kitchen Harley had been brought to before.

The chrome double doors leading into the club swung open dramatically, and Penguin flanked by Louis and another guard swept into the kitchen, the swooping notes of a raucous brass band following them.

"My friends!" Penguin beamed at them, opening his arms wide in welcome as he limped forward. He was flamboyantly dressed again, this time wearing a velvet waistcoat over a white shirt with old-fashioned black bands holding the fabric in place on his arms, and a plush purple cravat knotted at his throat.

"Nice to see you, Oswald." Harley smiled, her lips twitching when she heard the Joker snort derisively beside her.

"Harley," Penguin reached for her hands as he leaned in to kiss her on both cheeks. "My dear, what a  _treat_  to see you! And may I add, you are looking  _ravishing_  this evening."

"Thanks," she said drily, then held out her hand, palm up like she was offering him a platter. "This is the Joker."

Penguin's eyes shifted to the Joker beside her and widened as if he hadn't noticed him glowering there before.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, sir," he gushed, thrusting out his hand.

The Joker eyed the proffered hand warily, then rolled his eyes sideways to Harley as if to ask,  _Really?_  She shrugged, and he made a quiet, displeased sound before reluctantly accepting the handshake, his elbow rigid as Penguin pumped his hand like he was meeting the mayor.

"We have much to discuss," Penguin continued enthusiastically. "Perhaps your friends can wait out here while we speak in my office?"

"Uh huh," the Joker agreed distractedly, disentangling his fingers from Penguin's with a flourish before he let his hand drop onto the small of Harley's back, nudging her forward. "Lead the way, Ozzie."

Even through her thick coat, Harley was keenly aware of his hand on her lower back, and it surprised her how distracting it was to have him touching her so casually. A completely different touch than the shoving and dragging and pulling she'd been privy to thus far. She blinked quickly, trying to shake away the not entirely unpleasant and uneasy feeling that came with having his hand braced against her spine as they followed Penguin down a short hallway, leaving Bruno and Bambi with his thugs.

"This guy's fun," the Joker muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

"Uh huh," Harley said warily.

There was a heavy oak door that felt out of place after the stainless-steel kitchen and white plaster walls, and Penguin offered them a simpering smile over his shoulder as he ushered them through the door into a room that looked more like a smoking lounge than any office Harley had ever seen. The walls were paneled in rich, dark wood and the floors covered in wine-colored carpets. There was a fireplace beneath an antique mantelpiece and a large mahogany desk with two Chesterfield Wingback chairs and a lacquered bar cart flanking it.

"Please! Make yourselves at home," Penguin pleaded as he snatched up a bottle of champagne from the bar cart's ice bucket.

"Nice digs, Ozzie," the Joker drawled, wandering over to the fireplace where he examined a set of fire pokers until the sound of a cork popping drew his attention.

"Thank you," Penguin simpered, pouring three flutes of bubbles and offering one to Harley, who accepted the glass silently as she sat in one of the chairs facing the desk.

She crossed her legs and pursed her lips, watching the Joker fall gracelessly into the other chair, spinning the fire poker he'd stolen between his thumb and forefinger as he set his sights on Penguin, granting him his full attention for the first time that evening.

Penguin seemed to feel it too, a nervous tic running across his face as he sat behind his desk and swallowed a few mouthfuls of champagne for courage.

" _So,_ " the Joker hissed, his slouched posture at odds with the intensity of his stare. "A little birdie told me you want to be 'friends.' Now, I find this...  _surprising_. It's not every day that a uh..." He rotated his hand in midair as if searching for the right phrase. "Uh... crippled Maroni  _dishwasher_  works so hard to get my attention."

Penguin's face contorted, first in anger and then frustration as he fought to control his expression.

"Ha!" He gasped, his eyes bulging and nostrils flaring. "My, my, Joker. You certainly know how to make an impression. But I wonder, is there more to you besides the impression? Or are you just a freak in a clown suit, content to scare children and irritate those who hold the  _real_  power."

"Real power," the Joker examined his gloved fingers like the discussion was boring him. "Why dontcha tell me what  _real_  power is, Ozzie. I'm _dyin_ ' to know."

"The power to lead Gotham," Penguin scowled, his chin quivering as he glared at the Joker. "Gotham has been under the same leadership for decades. These same Cosa Nostra idiots who followed Falcone carry on as if nothing has happened, as if nothing has changed! As if there isn't a Batman still out there. As if you hadn't played them all for fools! As if you will simply disappear and not make yourself an inconvenience again! What kind of leadership is that?"

"Listen, Ozzie," the Joker's mouth curled into a cruel smirk as he hunkered forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "The mob isn't known for uh… thinking outside the  _box_. Here's the problem... I don't  _care_  what the mob does."

"You burnt half of the mob's life savings!" Penguin hissed incredulously, his eyes widening when the Joker shrugged modestly. "Nearly a billion dollars! You expect me to believe you don't care?"

"I don't care  _what_  ya believe, Ozzie," the Joker replied lazily. "But why dontcha tell me why you had Harley bring me over tonight, huh?"

Penguin grit his teeth, apparently concluding that he needed to take a different tack.

"Of course," he scowled, folding his hands together on top of the desk, his knuckles turning white as he attempted to smile. "I have a job for you, Joker."

There was a beat of silence, and the Joker chuckled. "You... have a job for _me_?" He sounded genuinely amused by the prospect, prodding the inside of his cheek with his tongue as he failed to suppress another shitty smirk.

"I understand," Penguin replied snidely, leaning forward. "You consider yourself above such things. Of course, you should. What you proved yourself capable of was... shocking, frankly. I spoke to Santo Cassamento. I know the mob didn't give you money or men. Somehow, you did it all on your own. How? How did you do it, Joker? The hospital? The ferries? Dent? Surillo and Loeb? How?"

The Joker didn't reply, the humor had left his face entirely, and he was staring coldly at Penguin, twisting the fire poker in his fist.

"What's your point, Oswald?" Harley jumped in, feeling like she needed to hurry the meeting along before someone got maimed.

"My point," Penguin shot Harley an icy look. "Is the Joker is capable of things most are not. And I would like to hire him for his unique services."

_"Services_ ," the Joker growled the word like a curse and planted the fire poker in the carpet, using it to push himself to his feet.

"I want Maroni dead," Penguin said, baring his teeth. "I want his lieutenants - Cassamento, Bertinelli, Inzerillo, Panessa - I want them all dead. I don't care how I just want them gone and soon. The Cosa Nostra will be the end of organized crime in Gotham if they are not reigned in!"

The Joker made a muffled, amused sound, swinging around to shoot Harley a look she couldn't decipher before he aimed the fire poker at Penguin.

"You're _sneaky_ ," he accused, stabbing the poker down on the desk, the pointed tip splitting the wood. "You wanna be the new Kingpin."

"I told you what I want," Penguin blustered, standing so he wouldn't have to look up at the Joker. "My motivations beyond that are of no consequence for you. "

"Yeah, yeah," the Joker waved him off and wandered back to the fireplace, staring down into the electric flames as the tension in the room eased a few notes. "I like it in theory. Scorched Earth plans are a favorite of mine." He flashed a nasty grin over his shoulder.

"So, you'll do it?" Penguin demanded as the Joker rotated away from the fireplace.

"Aren't ya gonna ask me what I  _want_?" he snapped, lifting one dubious eyebrow.

"No," Penguin replied smugly. "The last time you got paid, you burned your reward."

" _Technically_ ," the Joker lowered himself onto the arm of Harley's chair and ran his gloved palm over her hair in one quick stroke, nearly making her jump out of her seat. "I didn't finish that job."

"Semantics," Penguin argued. "What I'm willing to offer you is far more valuable."

"That seems unlikely," the Joker countered flatly.

"I'm offering you peace," Penguin continued. "If I do become the Kingpin, I will make sure you're free to do whatever you like. Blow up kindergartens, murder the Mayor, whatever you want. In exchange, all I ask is one thing... I would ask you don't _fuck_  me over."

Harley laughed and slapped a hand over her mouth, and beside her, she could feel the Joker vibrate with a quiet laugh of his own, though if it was directed at her or Penguin, she wasn't sure.

"I'll think about it," the Joker replied coyly, rising from his perch on the arm of her chair. "Listen, this was fun but, uh..."

"Wait one moment," Penguin interrupted, jumping to his feet and circling the desk to intercept them before they reached the door. "I have a gift for you."

"What kind of gift?" Harley narrowed her eyes, imagining all kinds of abhorrent 'gifts' he could offer them.

But Penguin just smiled and gestured with one white hand for them to follow him back out to the kitchen with its blinding fluorescent lights. It took Harley's eyes a second to adjust to the brightness, and then she had to blink hard to make sure she wasn't hallucinating. But the Joker's delighted giggle behind her told her what she was seeing was real.

Lying on top of the butcher's block in the middle of the kitchen was Walsh, his hands tied behind his back with zip ties, his ankles bound with rope. There was a ball-gag in his mouth, and his glasses were missing. From the slow blink of his eyes and the blood covering the back of his head, Harley guessed he was conscious but suffering a bad concussion.

She drifted forward until she was standing in front of Walsh, peering down at his face and feeling equal parts amazed and horrified. She licked her lips, unsure what the appropriate reaction was. Your boss is hog-tied in a mobster's kitchen, she thought. You should try to save him from almost certain death at the hands of the Joker.

But even with morality popping up and waving its flag, telling her what the right thing to do was, Harley knew she would not save Walsh.

Recognition dawned on Walsh's piggy little face when he realized it was Harley standing over him, and a brief, desperate hopefulness welled up in his eyes. He tried to talk, his face turning red as he struggled to beg for help around the ball gag, but rather than help him, Harley lifted her finger and pushed the gag further into his mouth until he began to choke and whine.

Her eyes widened, and she pulled back, out of Walsh's line of sight, exhaling shakily as she tried to make sense of what she was doing. Behind her, she could hear the Joker conceding it was a good gift, and he couldn't wait to see what Penguin would get him for his birthday while Penguin simpered and reminded the Joker what he wanted him to do, twice repeating the list of names he'd given earlier. But the Joker didn't agree to anything. He came to stand beside Harley, dropping a heavy hand on her shoulder and bending to put his mouth beside her ear.

"Wow," he said, his so voice low only she could hear it. "What're you gonna do with him?"

Harley turned to look up at him, and the sight of a slow, pleased smirk on his lips telling her that while this was a gift for her, Penguin had accurately guessed such a gift would please the Joker too. Suddenly all the fantasies she'd had about killing or maiming Walsh came back to her in a rush, and she knew the Joker would be more than happy to help her carry out any of them. All she had to do was ask. She felt her throat grow tight with fear, but fear of what she didn't know.

It must have shown on her face, because the Joker slid the hand on her shoulder across her back, so she was enveloped in the crook of his arm as they looked down at Walsh together. Too distracted by Walsh to overthink what she was doing, Harley sank into the Joker's side, her heart pulsing noisily in her ears as she watched Walsh crane his head around to find her. He was screaming again, ragged sounds from the back of his throat, and she could tell it would have been a demanding "QUINZEL! QUINZEL!" if he had use of his tongue.

Demanding she help him, just as he demanded everything else from her. Perhaps he didn't deserve to die for being such a prick, but 'deserve' was a uniquely conflicted term. No one ever got what they  _deserved_. Things just happened.

The Joker's arm was still looped over her shoulders, another of those casual touches that played on the tension lingering between them, tension that had been ratcheted up a few notches now that they'd made a tentative alliance. Harley shrugged him off, wondering what he hoped to gain by touching her, if it was to lull her into a false sense of security or if there was an element of just  _wanting_  to touch her in the mix.

She turned away from Walsh and looked up at the Joker, meeting his gaze evenly. There was a little smirk playing around the corners of his mouth as he waited for her to speak. But Harley didn't care how entertaining he found her now, and she knew exactly what she'd like to do to Walsh.

"Do you still have Crane's fear toxin?" She asked, her expression serious.

The smirk vanished off his face in an instant, and he leveled her with a heavy look she couldn't identify, but it felt like he was trying to stare through her skull. Then he licked his lips and looked away quickly.

"Keep this guy awake," he snapped at Bambi, hitching a thumb in Walsh's direction.

Bruno and Bambi gathered Walsh up by the armpits and ankles and wrestled him off the table and out into the alley, the Joker on their heels as if he was eager to get the hell out of there. Harley remained where she was, feeling a little shell-shocked by what she had just requested. She had always been curious to see the fear toxin work, and who better to test it on than Walsh? It was almost poetic.

She exhaled a breath as she turned back to Penguin, who had gone pale and twitchy as he watched the others leave, perhaps feeling like he had shown all his cards and lost. But Harley had skin in this game too.

She laid a hand on his arm, her eyes gentle and her smile soft.

"Oswald," she said, and he glared at her like she'd betrayed him. "I'll talk to him," she promised.

"You?" Penguin scoffed, all pretenses of propriety and pomp extinguished. "What can  _you_  do?"

Harley cocked her head to the side, reading the frustration and fear in the lines of Penguin's face.

"I guess you'll just have to see," she told him, giving his arm a friendly squeeze before she turned to leave.

Out into the alley, Bambi and Bruno were manhandling Walsh into the back of a yellow cab, the Audi having disappeared while they were inside. Walsh was braying like a dying animal, the substance of his screams muffled but the desperation behind them no mystery. Harley watched as they closed the trunk over him and climbed into the taxi, and she saw the Joker was already in the back seat, a cell phone glued to his head as he gestured wildly.

The driver's side window rolled down, and Bruno ducked his head out, his bushy eyebrows raised. "Are you comin'?" He asked her.

* * *

They drove south and then east, getting so close to Harley's apartment she wondered if they were planning on dropping her and Walsh off there - he was her gift after all.

Apart from Elvis crooning on the radio and the occasional moan from Walsh in the trunk, the car was silent. Harley wanted to ask about Maroni and his lieutenants, in part because she promised Penguin she would, in part because focusing on the politics of Penguin's proposition meant she wouldn't have to think about the fact that she was actively taking part in a kidnapping, and probably a murder too.

Walsh had been taken, tied up, and handed over to the Joker because of her, yes, but also because of how he had treated her. She didn't feel especially guilty about his predicament, maybe because she despised him, or perhaps because it was easy to believe he'd done this to himself.

A calmness had settled over her as they continued to drive, making it easy to think about life and death in simple, unemotional terms. Harley thought perhaps it was her subconscious helping her deal with a traumatizing moment, but then each time Walsh made his presence known - miserably cooing or shrieking in the trunk - all she felt was deep-seated irritation over his continued existence.

She glanced sideways at the Joker, hoping for some inkling of where they were going and how Walsh and the fear toxin fit into it. He was staring straight ahead at the back of the seat in front of him, his body perfectly still aside from the near-constant probing of his scars with his tongue. She indulged in watching him for a while and realized he wasn't just staring blindly ahead - he was thinking. A deep, meditative sort of thinking that multiplied her curiosity about him tenfold.

"Nearly there, boss," Bruno called from the driver's seat, and the Joker grunted approvingly in response, jolted out of his meditative trance.

Harley peered out the window and saw they were only blocks from her apartment in the Meatpacking district. She could see the Crowne Group cranes in the skyline, their work on the second Crowne tower paused as they had been all summer.

Like many parts of Gotham, the Meatpacking district had once been a thriving, wealthy area of the city that outlived its usefulness and descended into a derelict ghost town of drugs and poverty. Harley looked around as she climbed out of the car, taking in the boarded-up shop fronts and crumbling brick buildings, all of which had gone uninhabited or unused for decades. She slid her hand into her coat pocket to run her thumb over the Beretta as the others hauled Walsh out of the trunk and dumped him on the concrete under the Joker's instructions.

"Jesus fuck, you guys take the fucking scenic route?" Lonnie, the scrawny henchman with anarchist tattoos on his neck, appeared in the door of the closest building, a large brick structure with black, wrought-iron gates closing off a majority of its first floor. Lonnie waved at Bruno and Bambi with Walsh between them into the building through a section of the gate that had been pried open. The Joker trailed after them, his shoulders hunched and his jaw set, radiating impatience. Harley reluctantly followed them, feeling out of her element.

Once inside, she quickly realized what sort of building it was, making trepidation creep up her spine. It was an abandoned meatpacking factory. The crumbling brick walls, rusted-out metal drums, and piles of garbage suggested it hadn't been used for anything legitimate in a long time. Above her, long cables hung with huge, curved meathooks still ran the length of the building, and below them were the remnants of an assembly line.

They picked their way across the trash-strewn floor, Lonnie complaining loudly about not having enough time to put something decent together while the others struggled with Walsh. Harley kept her distance, her curiosity winning out over self-preservation, which told her hanging out with the Joker in a slaughterhouse of her own free will was idiotic.

"Throw him up here," Lonnie gestured to a section of the conveyor belt that was still intact.

Harley watched Bruno and Bambi swing Walsh by the ankles and armpits, trying to get enough momentum to fling him onto the chest-high surface, but her attention was quickly drawn to a large steel drum with "MCU PROPERTY" spray-painted in stencil across its side. Crane's toxin. The reality of the situation smacked her right in the face then, and she felt a tremor of nervousness roll through her. They were really going to test the fear toxin on Walsh. The same fear toxin that drove Crane half-insane. She couldn't tell if she was excited or terrified. They seemed to go hand in hand lately.

"How are you going to administer it?" She asked Lonnie, trying to think clinically to keep herself calm as Walsh's body landed on the conveyor belt with a slap.

Lonnie shot her a withering look and declined to answer, so Harley circled the conveyor belt to get a look at what he had constructed on limited time. It quickly became apparent that what he was working with was not top tier Jonathan Crane level engineering.

"Oh..." Harley said, examining the jerry-rigged contraption Lonnie had developed. It featured a lot of duct tape, rubber tubing, a tank of compressed air and three car batteries that appeared to be keeping a few dim lights on too. "So I take it mechanical engineering isn't your strong point," she said drily, shooting Lonnie an unimpressed look, and wondering why the hell he had been put in charge of figuring this crucial step.

"You guys gave me twenty fuckin' minutes to figure this shit out," Lonnie snapped irritably, but Harley pursed her lips, her eyes following the rubber tubing escaping the drum of toxin up to a metal hose hanging overhead like an elephant's trunk.

A loud throat-clearing designed to get her attention stopped her from pressing Lonnie further, and when Harley turned, she was unsurprised to see the Joker glowering at her in the half-darkness. He was leaning against the conveyor belt, his arms and ankles crossed, the picture of composure.

"Know what this is?" He asked her, hiking a thumb at the table Walsh was now tied to.

"Is it a conveyor belt?" Harley replied sourly, folding her arms over her chest and cocking her head to the side.

He gave a quiet, throaty laugh - like it would stay between the two of them that she was funny - and despite her reservations, the corner of Harley's mouth lifted in a fraction of a smile. He curled his index finger at her, gesturing for her to come closer, and Harley rolled her eyes but swayed closer nonetheless, watching him rub a gloved finger back and forth on the table beside Walsh's zip-tied hand.

"This," he informed her, his eyes lighting up wickedly. "Is the  _head_  table."

"The head table?" Harley repeated, her eyes widening.

" _Oh_ , yeah," he nodded, then cleared his throat like he was about to impart some wisdom. "See, this used to be a meatpacking plant for  _hogs_. The pig farmers would send what was left of the corpses here to be harvested for, ya know, whatever else they could make some cash off."

Harley's lip curled in disgust, but she said nothing, following the line of his finger as he pointed out different elements of the old factory, displaying a surprising amount of knowledge on slaughterhouse practice, though maybe that shouldn't have been so surprising. He pointed up at the hose above them, and his mouth curled up cruelly.

"And _that's_  the brain blower," he informed her in a low growl. "That one's a real  _fucker_."

"The brain blower?" Harley laughed as Walsh cried out. Harley ignored him. "Let me guess. It sucks the brains out of severed pig heads?"

"Ooh,  _close_ ," the Joker flashed her a savage grin and gave the hose above them a tug so he could examine its end. "They'd uh... insert this into the skull, then pump in compressed air until the brains were all  _liquefied_. Then they leaked down to this drain here," he pointed underfoot to an old drain clogged with leaves and debris. "And sell em' to China and Korea."

But he'd lost Harley sometime around 'liquefied brains.' She watched as Lonnie attached the other end of the hose to a dark green tank of compressed air, and realized just how slap-dash their efforts were.

"Wait," she said as Lonnie secured tubing connecting the fear toxin to the air tank. "This is really the best you could come up with?" She asked incredulously, earning a scowl from Lonnie.

"QUINZEL! For the love of god, Quinzel! HELP ME!"

Harley spun around at the sound of Walsh's cracked, pleading voice. Bambi had removed the ball gag from his mouth and was wrestling with Walsh to keep his head still as the Joker guided the end of the brain blower into his mouth.

"Quinzel! Quinzel, you have to help me! _PLEASE!"_  But whatever else Walsh had to say was covered by muffled choking as the Joker and Bambi taped his mouth shut around the end of the brain blower. When they backed off, Walsh's head fell to the side, his piggy eyes streaming with tears as he searched out Harley.

The eerie calmness she'd been relying on since arriving at the slaughterhouse was still humming steadily as she watched Walsh struggle. He didn't want to die, and she could sympathize with him for that, but that didn't mean she cared enough to stop what was now inevitable. And if the look of the contraption Lonnie had come up with was any indication, it would not be pretty.

She stepped closer to the table, planting her fists on her hips as she gazed down at Walsh. It occurred to her then that she had always thought he looked piggy and now he was about to be tortured by a device meant to liquefy pig brains. She laughed reflexively and bent forward so she could look him in the eye.

"You were a terrible boss," she informed him, her smile widening at the outrage in Walsh's eyes.

The sound of a car battery starting made her back away - for all she knew once that thing started, Walsh's head was going crack in half - and she found herself drawn to the Joker's side again. He had his arms crossed high over his chest as he watched through narrowed eyes.

"This better be worth it," he groused to Lonnie, who was double checking his tubing and taping skills.

"Fuck off, J," Lonnie called over his shoulder, sounding aggrieved.

The Joker chuckled gruffly under his breath, making Harley squint up at him in the darkness, intrigued that he could banter with one of his minions. He looked down at her, his jaw set with that same impatience he'd been radiating since they got in the car, but he didn't turn it on her. Instead, his eyes narrowed with interest, sweeping over her a few times like he was trying to memorize her for later. His attention sent a pleased shiver up Harley's spine and across her scalp, and she had to turn away from him to stop it from spreading further. She focused on Walsh and Lonnie instead, and after a minute or two, she felt the Joker shift beside her as he settled in to watch the show.

There was a hiss of gas and a loud sucking sound, and Lonnie stepped back from his work as the fear toxin pumped through the tubing and into the brain blower. The tank of compressed air hissed again as it met the toxin at the mouth of the hose, and then suddenly Walsh was flailing against his restraints, his screams growing desperate around the nozzle of the brain blower.

Harley wanted to get closer, wanted to take his pulse and watch his pupils, and find out what type of fear-toxin-induced hallucinations he was seeing. But this wasn't her experiment, so she remained where she was between the Joker and Bambi, watching in silence as Walsh began convulsing and screaming as he arched off the table and collapsed again.

Then he wasn't moving at all. The car battery was still running, the tank still hissing away, and when Lonnie only hovered uncertainly nearby, Harley took the opportunity to move in, her clinical training taking over.

She took Walsh's pulse; it was like a freight train. She checked his pupils; they were massively dilated. She checked his breathing beneath his nose; it was shallow. She snapped her fingers in front of his eyes, but he didn't blink or show signs of cognition. His eyes stayed open and glazed.

"Fuck," she said, stepping away from the table and looking at Lonnie. "You literally blew his brain."

Behind her, the Joker cackled in delight, and Harley began ripping off pieces of duct tape until she could pry the hose out of Walsh's mouth. Without the hose and tape to hold him in place, his head flopped to the side, a stream of fear toxin leaking out of his mouth and nose onto the conveyor belt. She felt his pulse again, and it was still pounding like he was running a marathon.

He was a dead man in all but name.

Harley sighed quietly, feeling like this was all kind of a letdown.

"He still alive?" Bruno asked.

"Yes," Harley answered as the Joker moved in to inspect Walsh for himself, jabbing two fingers into Walsh's fleshy neck to take his pulse at the jugular.

"Hmm," he growled, low in his throat. "Dr Walsh needs to cool off."

Harley frowned, not sure what he meant by that, but decided she'd made herself the center of attention enough for one day and stayed out of Bruno and Bambi's way as they unshackled Walsh and heaved him off the table. He landed on the floor in a silent heap, and they gathered him up again, half dragging, half carrying him deeper into the factory. The Joker trailed after them, beneath the meat hooks and past huge rusted saws used to cut through bone, and Harley followed, envisioning tragic ends for Walsh with those hooks and saws.

They stopped at an old walk-in freezer, Bruno and Bambi shouldering open the heavy chrome door so that they could toss Walsh inside.

Harley watched as the thugs left and the Joker strolled into the freezer to squat down beside Walsh, roughly slapping each of his cheeks until it was clear he wouldn't be waking up. He took Walsh's pulse again and hummed unhappily before craning his head around to look at Harley over his shoulder.

"Well  _that_  was anti-climatic," he complained sourly, rising to stand again. He gave Walsh a swift kick in the ribs for good measure.

"Why did you take the fear toxin from the MCU?" Harley probed, leaning one shoulder against the wall of the freezer, the cold seeping through the thick layer of her coat and into her skin. "You always said gunpowder and gasoline are your tools. This feels... superfluous."

She watched his shoulders tense as he turned his dark eyes on her, and she sucked in a nervous breath.

"Ya know, the way you're reacting to... all of  _this_ ," he waved a hand at Walsh on the floor as he started to move toward her, a slow creep like a tiger circling its prey. "It's a little...  _weird."_

Harley pressed her lips together in a tight line. She already knew this was true, that she wasn't reacting normally to the kidnapping and torture and inevitable death of her colleague. Part of her was half-hoping she would come to her senses, burst into tears, and run screaming from the factory. That would have been the normal thing to do, and normal was safe. Theoretically. Right now Harley was standing, alive and well, while Walsh was nearly dead on the floor. Safety was relative.

"Shouldn't you be a  _little_  more upset that Murphy here is about to...  _expire_ ," the Joker continued to slink toward her, and Harley's heart began to thud distractingly against her breastbone as he got closer, the first fissures in her wonderfully calm composure beginning to show. "Dontcha think?"

He came to a stop in front of her and pulled a crowbar out from behind his back with a theatrical flourish.

"Maybe you have some... unacknowledged  _anger_  you need to ah,  _let out_ ," he purred, offering the crowbar to her. "You could take it out on Walsh here, hmm? Before he's gone for good? Then you'll  _never_  be able to hurt him like you've  _always_  wanted to..."

Harley scowled, knowing he was fucking with her again, and intensely disliking the way he was framing himself as her violent teacher.

When she didn't take the crowbar, he flipped it around so it was clenched in his fist again, keeping his eyes on hers as he held the crowbar up and waved it right in her face. Harley swatted it away, furious over how unabashedly brazen he was, and an amused smirk twisted his lips. He was so smug. He thought he was  _winning_.

He opened his mouth to purr something poisonous, but Harley moved forward before he got a chance. Her hands clapped down over his ears as she shoved her chest into his, and she saw his blackened eyes widen the moment before she pressed her mouth against his.

His lips were cold from the freezer, like a corpse, and at first, he didn't react. Harley closed her eyes as she pulled his scarred bottom lip between her teeth and bit down lightly, resisting the urge to sink her teeth in fully. She heard the crowbar hit the floor and bounce with a noisy clang, and then one of his hands wrapped around the back of her neck, and he was kissing her urgently _._ Not roughly -  _urgently_.

Harley deepened the kiss immediately, threading her fingers into his hair and pulling it tight as her tongue rolled against his. The greasepaint on his lips was powdery and bitter, and there was a lingering taste of tobacco in the recesses of his mouth. She should have found it repellent, but she leaned into it instead. Then she heard him exhale shortly through his nose, a quiet, gruff sound she knew meant he liked it. Somehow, it was the most arousing thing she'd ever heard in her life, and she desperately wanted to see what other sounds she could drag out of him.

Her lips grew more frantic and demanding, and his hand tightened on her neck, and she hooked an arm around his shoulders to pull him closer, and then one of his hands started to sneak inside her coat to touch her...

A car door slammed, cutting through the fog of eagerness clouding Harley's brain. She took stock of the gloved hand squeezing the back of her neck. Of the cold lips and warm tongue fighting with hers. Of her body's enthusiastic response to an impulse she hadn't even realized existed.

She pulled back abruptly, her arm still looped around his neck, her fingers still tangled in his hair, her body still pressed up against his. His eyes flew open, the glint of something smug already swimming there as he stroked the back of her neck with his thumb, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Harley released him and backed up until she was sure there was no part of her touching any part of him. Her breath was coming fast, and her pulse was still racing, and her hands shook even as she balled them up into fists at her sides. Across from her, the Joker had a slow, shit-eating grin spreading across his face, and without thinking about what she was doing, Harley pulled out her gun and pointed it at his head.

It just made him throw his head back and laugh, his face crumpling as a cackle tore out of his throat, forcing him to double over and hold onto his thighs to remain standing as he crowed.

Harley spared one last look at Walsh then turned and darted out of the freezer. She ran through the factory as fast as she could and burst out onto the street, feeling stunned and disgusted with herself.

The taxi was still parked where they'd left it, Bruno standing guard nearby, but she ignored him when he called out to her. She stuffed the gun in her pocket, keeping her finger on the trigger and looked up at the skyline. When she spotted the cranes, she set off in their direction, determined to get home on her own.

And away from the Joker.

* * *

**A/N: I figured torturing her boss at a slaughterhouse was the appropriate setting for a first kiss.**

**Fun fact: the brain blower is a real thing. Researching slaughterhouses is disgusting.**

**Shout out to the guest who reviewed to say this iteration of the story is for grown ups. I love that sentiment. Things haven't even gotten 'grown up' yet.**

**Next: Harley deals with Walsh's disappearance at work and finds herself drawn into yet another plot by the Joker.**


	9. Chapter 9

The Harlequin

9.

* * *

"Who is she?" Santo Cassamento asked, sliding his reading glasses up his nose so he could see the blonde woman's picture more clearly.

"Harleen Quinzel, boss," said the henchmen holding a tablet, its screen displaying the image of a young woman wearing a lab coat, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, her mouth pinched. "She was his shrink."

Cassamento ran his palm over his jaw, feeling the stubble that was starting to come through at the end of a long day. The woman in the picture looked stern, prudish, not the sort of person who would be easy to approach or who would accept money for information. But Santo needed whatever she could tell him. And whatever she was telling the cops, he needed to know that too, in more detail than he could get from a stolen police report. The other heads of the family might have been satisfied to leave the Joker for the Batman to deal with, but Santo wasn't so sure. The Joker fed off chaos, and he would almost certainly attack their operation like he did the last time he was on the loose.

"Alright," he said, taking off his glasses and sitting back in his desk chair. "Put Micky Sullivan's boys on the case. Twenty grand to whoever can get her here before tomorrow night. Scare her a little, but only enough to get her to talk."

"You got it, boss."

* * *

Harley got home around 3 AM and went to bed immediately, longing for unconsciousness to soothe her restless mind. But she lay there for hours, staring at the wall as she replayed the events of the evening over and over in her head until they became so blurred they didn't mean anything real anymore. When she finally managed to find the sweet relief of sleep, it came far too close to her alarm, but Harley dutifully pulled herself out of bed when the birds started singing, even if her brain felt like lukewarm soup.

When Walsh didn't show up for work, there were a few hours of confusion. He had a meeting with the PR firm the board had hired, and the nursing team was supposed to have their annual review, but Walsh didn't show for any of it. Finally his secretary Lynette managed to get his wife on the phone. She informed them Walsh hadn't come home the night before, and that the police said he needed to be missing for twenty-four hours before she could file a missing person report. Lynette confided to Harley and Blakely that Walsh's wife sounded a little drunk even though it wasn't yet lunchtime, and they all agreed to check in with her later in the day, just in case Walsh turned up.

Harley knew he wouldn't be turning up anytime soon. His body was either at the bottom of Gotham Harbor or on a cold slab somewhere. She didn't know what other methods of body-disposal the Joker had on hand.

Walsh being MIA meant Harley and Blakely had to pick up his slack, visiting his patients and filing his paperwork. Every time Harley walked through B Wing, she was tempted to stop by Crane's cell and tell him what had happened at the meatpacking plant. Less because she wanted to tell him about her experience with the fear toxin, and more so she could get it off her chest. Unfortunately, she couldn't trust Crane any farther than she could throw him, and if she gave up any more information about her nocturnal activities of late, he would almost certainly use it against her.

It occurred to Harley that she could go to Jim Gordon with what she knew, but she quickly shelved that idea. She did not want to go to prison, and there was plenty that could get her into trouble with the law since she'd lied to the police twice and participated in Walsh's kidnapping and torture.

Instead, she went about her day, drinking cup after cup of sludgy black coffee and daydreaming about letting her head sink into a soft pillow, even if just briefly. Just a little bit of sleep, she told herself, would help her decide what to do next because she was currently flying blind.

But even though she felt like a zombie, Harley couldn't deny that she was enjoying the feeling of free-falling, if only just a little.

* * *

For a building that claimed to be forty-two stories of  _luxury_ , Crowne Tower certainly lacked in, uh,  _security protocol._  The kid at the concierge desk didn't even look up as the Joker strolled through the lobby. Granted, most of the green dye had washed out of his hair in the shower, and he was wearing black jeans and a button-down shirt beneath a heavy black coat, a scarf tied around the bottom half of his face. Still, he wasn't exactly inconspicuous.

His eyes were burning from exhaustion as he rode the elevator to the sixth floor, and he counted the days since he'd last found time to sleep. It hadn't been that long, maybe a day and a half. Before that, three days with the occasional micro nap to keep him going. But that was nothing. Arkham had softened him up.

The elevator dinged, announcing that he had reached the sixth floor, and the Joker took his time meandering down the hall to Harley's apartment, taking note of the Halloween decorations on her neighbors' doors. When he found her door, he wasn't surprised to see she hadn't decorated for trick-or-treaters. That just wasn't Harley Quinzel's  _style_ , and the Joker was a _big_  fan of her style.

He pulled a pair of lock picks from his jacket pocket, an old trick he rarely used these days. Shooting off the lock or using a couple of clowns to shoulder their way in were the easiest ways to get past a closed door fast, but breaking into Harley's apartment required a gentle touch. He was just there  _to learn_.

Moving slowly, he unfolded the picks and hunkered down into a squat to get a look at the lock on her front door. He rubbed his thumb over the brass keyhole, pursing his lips when he spotted two long scratches crisscrossing the lock.  _Someone_  had already been there, and they had been  _very_  sloppy about it.

The Joker rose back to standing and pressed his ear against the door, testing the handle. He could hear shuffling inside, and the handle lowered easily - this _someone_  was still inside. An excited shiver passed through him as he quietly toed off his shoes and slowly pushed the door open, keeping himself covered until he was sure this  _someone_  wasn't waiting for him on the other side before he ducked into the apartment, letting the door fall shut behind him with a soft click.

The first thing he noticed was the glass covering the floor, massive shards of it that looked like a mirror and a vase had been smashed, but not too recently. He imagined Harley destroying her possessions, leaving them, walking over the mess every time she came through her front door and breathing in the chaos she had created in her own small but significant way. It made his lips twitch because she was so...  _weird_. Then the smell of cigarette smoke reached his nose, and he remembered why he was there.

He tread softly as he moved down the hallway, passing doors leading to a bedroom and a bathroom, quickly checking each for the intruder before moving on. The stale cigarette smell was growing stronger, and now he could hear someone rifling through papers in the living room. He pressed his back against the wall, listening and preparing to make himself known.

There was a handgun in the holster under his armpit, but he didn't draw it - where was the fun in that? Instead, he reached for the K-Bar he'd tucked into the coat's inside pocket on a whim. He tested its serrated blade with his fingertip and hummed happily. It was less practical, considering Harley's intruder was sure to be armed with a gun, but it would be  _so_  much more satisfying to kill them this way. Guns just weren't as  _elegant_.

He peered around the corner into Harley's living room and clocked the chaotic mess she'd made there, as well as the slim, red-haired man inspecting stacks of magazines and journals on her kitchen table. Deciding he'd spent enough time in the shadows, the Joker rounded the corner into the living room, not bothering to be quiet as he loped across the room toward Harley's intruder.

The intruder's eyes widened at the sight of another person in the apartment, but he recovered quickly and raised a pistol outfitted with a silencer. He took a shot, but the Joker dodged into Harley's kitchen for cover, sliding down the wall to the floor as three more silenced shots struck the wall in front of him. He moaned weakly, waiting for the intruder to come closer, and when the man's foot appeared at the entrance to the kitchen, the Joker slashed sideways with the K-Bar, earning a squeal of pain when the knife sliced through the man's Achilles tendon.

As the intruder stumbled back, the Joker hopped to his feet, grabbing the man by the lapels and hauling him up against the living room wall. He slammed his knee into his hand twice, trying to shake the pistol loose but the intruder held on tight, baring his teeth as he grabbed a handful of the Joker's shirt. Even with the K Bar so close to his face, the intruder bravely tried to get a headbutt in, but the move threw them both off balance. They went barrelling across the room together, the Joker's back hitting the wall beside Harley's couch, sending the contents of her side table crashing to the floor.

The intruder managed to get his elbow between their faces, holding the Joker's knife hand at bay as they struggled against one another.

"Who the bleedin' _fook_  are you!" the intruder sneered, and the Joker happily ripped the scarf away from his face to reveal his scars, relishing the shock on the other man's face as he realized who he was in a fistfight with.

The intruder's grip on his pistol loosened and the Joker knocked the gun away, sending it skirting across the carpet. Weaponless, the man decided to run, disentangling himself from the Joker and limping out into the hallway. He only made it a few halting steps before the Joker was on top of him, one arm crushing around his chest while the other leveled the K Bar at his throat, forcing him down to his knees.

" _Now_ ," the Joker hissed, feeling the other man shudder as he panted hard through his nose."Who sent ya?"

"Cassamento," the intruder replied weakly. "He just wants her brought in for information. I wasn't gonna hurt her I-"

Satisfied with this answer, the Joker slit the man's throat. Blood spilled down over his hands, warm and slick, and when he released the man's shirt, he fell face first to the floor, gurgling as he clung to life. Blood quickly began to pool around him on the floor, staining Harley's white carpet deep scarlet as it began to spread. The Joker pursed his lips and watched the stain widen. If he bled out completely, it would soak through the floorboards and into the ceiling of the apartment below. Not very subtle...

Sighing, the Joker grabbed the man by the back of the shirt and dragged him into the bathroom, dropping him beside the tub before using his heel to roll him onto his back. There was still life in the man's eyes, and the Joker offered him a poor imitation of a sympathetic smile before he gathered him up under the armpits and heaved him into the bathtub.

Content with that arrangement, the Joker washed his hands and wrists in the sink and dabbed at his shirt where there was blood spatter. He raked his hair off his forehead and looked around for a mirror, but all that remained was a medicine cabinet without any glass. She must have destroyed that too, he realized, frowning as he contemplated her need for such destruction. Her need for  _violence._ He wanted to find out what else she was capable of. He wanted to know what other ways she could surprise him.

He'd seen signs of it before, specifically when she'd thrown herself on Nash, and it had been a  _lot_  more than he'd expected. The night before at the slaughterhouse had been another fine example. First, making the choice to torture her boss -  _that_ caught him off guard, which was hard to do - followed by the way she'd thrown herself at  _him_.

That tension had been bubbling away between them for quite a while now, but it hadn't occurred to the Joker to _act_  on it in any real way, nor would he have previously described it as  _lust._  At least not until she was pressed up against him, pulling his hair and shoving her tongue in his mouth and  _clinging_  to him, revealing herself to be an intriguingly arousing combination of aggressive and...  _soft_. Now that she'd planted the seed, he was curious to find out more. A  _lot_  more.

As a rule, the Joker didn't believe in boundaries or drawing lines in the sand, but overindulging wasn't his style either. As fascinating and no doubt  _enjoyable_  as it would be to go down that road with Harley, there was too much  _real_  work to be done. Distractions  _definitely_  weren't his style. It took a lot to distract him, especially with  _events forthcoming_  on the horizon, but he had a feeling if anyone could steal his attention away, it would be Harley.

Just a taste would have to be enough to satisfy him this time.

Even if she did taste  _exceptionally_  good.

* * *

All day Harley moved through the halls of Arkham like a zombie, carefully tailoring her reactions whenever Walsh's disappearance - "I'm sure he'll show up soon, but it  _is_  strange" - or the Joker's master plan - "He's only a man, they'll catch him again" - were discussed. Having to lie constantly was almost as exhausting as running on no sleep, and she counted the hours until she could go home and crawl into bed.

She went to see Crane but kept the visit short, making up some bullshit about how the MCU were crawling all over Arkham since Walsh had disappeared. It seemed to give Crane strength, to know Walsh was missing and that at some point it would be safe enough for Harley to help him escape. Harley wasn't sure how long she could string Crane along without actually following through on her promise, but it wasn't as though he had the power to do anything should he realize she was manipulating him.

Her shift finished at seven, but as per usual she didn't leave until closer to eleven, her feet dragging as she waved to the guard at the gate and headed for the station. It was Halloween, but the Narrows wasn't decorated like other parts of Gotham, its residents more in need of food and housing than pumpkin lanterns and paper ghosts. Harley looked back over her shoulder at the asylum, imagining a bolt of lighting striking its brutalist exterior. The Narrows was scary enough without Halloween.

"Hey... Dr Quinzel."

Harley stopped and turned to stare down a dark alley on her left, her pulse picking up when she realized it was the same alley the Batman had cornered her in for a chat. A lump formed in her throat as she imagined him coming out of the shadows again, but instead, two figures appeared, one big man and a skinnier one beside him, and as they came closer Harley saw the skinny one was pointing a pistol at her.

"Or can I call ya Harley?" He asked with a sly smirk.

With a gun pointed at her and no other options, Harley stepped into the mouth of the alley, multiple sure-to-fail plans of escape ticking through her head as she stood in front of the two men, a clunky Oldsmobile with its headlights on casting their shadows against the wall.

"What do you want?" She asked.

The skinny man had slicked back black hair and wore a leather trench coat while his much larger counterpart was sporting a tattoo of a dragon crawling out of his collar of his Member's Only jacket and up his neck. They looked at each other andthen the bigger one held up a roll of duct tape.

"Gimme yer bag and yer hands," he ordered as the skinny one unlocked the car's trunk, keeping the gun trained on Harley the whole time.

Glancing out on the street, Harley considered screaming for help - she definitely needed it - but the chances of a good Samaritan passing by in the Narrows were slim, and she imagined shouting for help would only get her in more trouble.

Then the skinny one was suddenly right behind her, the barrel of his gun pressing against her spine.

"Give him your hands," he advised, prodding her in the back with the gun, and Harley reluctantly dropped her bag on the ground and lifted her hands.

"What is it you want?" She tried again, as the bigger man began to wind duct tape around her wrists in a practiced pattern. He pulled off a shorter strip of tape and held it up to her face, and Harley narrowed her eyes. "I  _said,_  what the fuck do you want!" She managed to snap before the skinny one grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking her head back to keep her still as the bigger one slapped the tape over her mouth.

She started to struggle in earnest, ignoring the gun at her back as the two men manhandled her into the trunk of the Oldsmobile. The skinny one swore when she managed to stomp on his foot, but instead of derailing him, it only made them both more eager to see her packed into the trunk. Harley kicked out as her back hit the carpeted floor, and she felt her foot connect with the big guy's gut, making him grunt unhappily. But before Harley could lash out again, they had slammed the trunk shut on her and locked it, and she was submerged in complete darkness.

With her wrists bound together in an X, she banged her fists on the trunk and attempted to scream, her lips strained against the tape. But she kept trying, huffing and whining and pounding on the trunk until she felt the car pull out of the alley.

She hesitated, breathing hard through her nose as she tried to envision a map of the Narrows. They stopped for a light and took a right, and for about two minutes, Harley was able to trace the car's location based on its turns and stops. It was enough to discern that they were heading north, but it quickly became impossible to keep track, and she gave up, choosing to shut her eyes and take stock of her situation instead.

She was being kidnapped - again - by men knew what they were doing, which meant someone had ordered them to kidnap her. That seemed to be how things worked from what she'd learned of Gotham's underbelly so far. You didn't get kidnapped or murdered by men who knew what they were doing unless someone higher up the food chain ordered it. But who would want to kidnap her? The Narrows was dangerous, and it would have been easy enough to fake a mugging gone wrong if someone wanted her dead. So, she concluded, she was being taken somewhere...

Images of Walsh from the night before flashed across her mind's eye and Harley felt a swell of panic as she imagined herself strapped down and tortured. She began pounding on the trunk with her fists again, her throat growing dry and scratchy as she tried to scream for help. She knew it was fruitless, and the irony that Walsh had been in exactly the same position she now found herself in was not lost on her, but that didn't stop her from screaming until her throat was raw.

The car took a sharp turn, and Harley was thrown sideways, her shoulder striking the wall, making her groan unhappily as the car rolled to a stop.

She estimated they had been driving for about twenty minutes, and in that time she'd screamed her throat sore, but her exhaustion had evaporated, replaced with a potent cocktail of adrenaline and anger. The sound of muffled voices approaching the trunk sent a new wave of determination through her. She balled her hands up into fists again and held them up over her face.

A key twisted in the lock and the trunk swung open, revealing the huge man who had tied her hands together. Harley lay still as he bent over her, and just before his hand closed over her arm, she punched up with both fists, releasing a little cry of exertion that was muffled by the duct tape. Her fists grazed his throat, not quite landing as she'd hoped they would, but she saw the big man's eyes widen in surprise as he stumbled back, his hands flying up to rub his neck.

"What the fuck, Dough Boy," snapped a second voice, Harley recognized as the skinny man with the gun. She didn't have time to get her hands up before he grabbed her by the hair, yanking her up with a scowl. Harley shrieked and squirmed, trying to free herself as the skinny guy wrapped a hand around her bicep and dragged her out of the trunk.

She landed hard on her knees, pain racing up her thighs making her wince, and she swallowed a whine when the skinny man forced her to her feet, keeping a vice-like grip on her upper arm.

Harley swayed, her legs jelly-like as she tried to concentrate on her surroundings. It was another unremarkable alley, but better lit by the orange glow of a lone street lamp, and clearly a different part of town. Parked in front of them was a white utility van, its doors closed.

"That wasn't nice," the big one sneered as he massaged his throat. But Harley ignored him. Her eyes were on the van.

Both of its back doors swung open, and though Harley shouldn't have been surprised, her eyes still widened when the Joker hopped out with a showman-like flourish of his arms.

His face was freshly painted, his eyes as black as wine and focused only on Harley as he strode across the alley toward them. Harley's surprise quickly morphed into anger so fierce and acutely trained on the Joker that she was nearly shaking when he reached her.

"Get yourself in some trouble?" He drawled, his mouth curling up on one side as his gaze bounced over her disheveled hair and bound hands. Moving so fast that Harley almost missed it, he lifted a gloved hand to her face and ripped the tape off her mouth.

"Ah!" She shrieked, the lower half of her face exploding in pins and needles. She lifted her bound hands to her mouth and tried to rub the tingling away, glaring at him over her fists. "You  _asshole_!" She accused.

The sentiment made him chuckle throatily, and he lifted his hand again, this time to push back the hair that had fallen into her eyes, tucking it neatly behind her ear. Harley scowled and reared back from him, not failing to notice the complacent gleam in his eyes. It was similar to the one he'd worn after she'd kissed him, which only served to piss her off further and make her face feel hot.

"What the fuck is going on?" She snapped.

"Nice to see you too," the Joker replied drily. He sighed melodramatically and rolled his eyes to the side. "I need... a  _favor_."

"Are you kidding me?" Harley scoffed, trying to tug her arm out of the skinny man's grip with more confidence now that she knew who he worked for. She saw the Joker nod briefly at his henchmen, which was enough to make the skinny man release her.

"You know I love a kidder," the Joker replied smoothly, watching her rub her arm. "But not this time."

"So why the hell did you  _kidnap_  me?" Harley huffed, stopping short of asking why he didn't just text her.  _That_  would be admitting there was some sort of...  _relationship_  between them outside happenstance, and she was consistently reassuring herself that their paths just kept crossing by chance and bad luck.

"Look,  _Harley,_  I'm doing  _you_  a favor here too," he placated, rolling his eyes as if she was being unreasonable about being kidnapped, and when she tried to refute this, he shushed her and hiked his thumb at the two men who had abducted her. "This is Sly, and this is Dough Boy," he informed her and Harley looked incredulously at each of them in turn, bewildered that she was being  _introduced_  to her kidnappers.

"Nice ta meet ya," Sly deadpanned, and Dough Boy grunted unhappily, still massaging his throat where Harley had tried to punch him.

"Likewise," Harley scowled. "How about you untie my hands?"

"Santo Cassamento's put a hit out on you," Sly said, eyeing her resentfully. "Twenty grand to bring you in alive for a talk about the Joker. No dice if you're dead. He's paranoid about the boss and wants information."

"I... what? Who?  _Why!_ " Harley sputtered, realizing she knew the name Santo Cassamento. It was one of the names on Penguin's list,  _and_  it had featured prominently in Harvey Dent's investigation. She whipped back around to face the Joker, ready to spit another accusation in his face when she remembered the conditions under which they'd been given the list. In private. Alone. Just the three of them.

The Joker eyed her impassively, his eyebrows lifting just a fraction in a challenge and Harley swallowed her complaint, knowing she shouldn't say anything in front of his henchmen. Not just for his sake, but for hers and Penguin's too.

"What's the favor?" she asked quietly, not seeing what else she could do when a mob boss was demanding her presence.

" _Mutual_  favor," the Joker corrected. "Sly and Dough Boy are gonna take you to Cassamento. You tell him whatever you want about me, then uh...  _ideally_  you get paid and sleep in your own bed tonight."

Harley watched his face carefully as he spoke. It was harder to read him when the warpaint was as fresh and intense as it was right now. She could tell he was playing innocent, but she wasn't buying it, nor was she buying the story that he was delivering her to Cassamento so she could take a cut of the profits. More likely was that he was using her to  _find_  Cassamento, which made her the _bait_. And once again, Harley wondered why he couldn't just  _ask_  her outright, and once again she shoved that thought aside and what it implied. That if he had just asked... she would have helped.

"You want me to be bait," she scowled. "Why the hell would he let me go when he's finished getting what he wants? You people aren't exactly known for keeping your promises."

"She's smart," Sly observed. "Too smart," he added ominously.

Harley shot him a withering look but kept an insult about leather trench coats to herself. Being pressured into helping didn't appeal to her in the slightest, and the unfortunate fact that simply being asked would have made her more amenable made her feel even more inclined to be contrary now. She looked the Joker in the eye and saw that wicked, shitty gleam dancing there, tempting her into saying 'yes' to everything he wanted from her.

"No," she told him coldly.

His eyes narrowed, and for a split second, Harley thought he might hit her. She prepared to block it, clenching her hands into fists again, but he only sucked in a deep, wheezy breath through his nose and rolled his head around in a full circle, the bones in his neck popping disconcertingly. Then he was flying at her, getting right up in her face so their noses were nearly touching.

"I'm sorry... uh,  _no_?" he barked, his voice so deep it was almost inhuman. Harley shrank back when he flung three fingers up between their faces.

"The way I see it, you got three choices,  _sweetheart,"_  he snarled and began counting down the fingers between them. _"One_ , you go with Dough Boy and Sly  _now_. Two, some other Cosa Nostra thug brings you in, and they'll be  _a lot_  less nice about it...  _Three_..." He reached into his jacket and withdrew the gun holstered at his side, and before Harley could react, he'd wedged the cold barrel under her jaw, forcing her head back.

"I kill you now and  _allllll_  your problems go away," he sang sinisterly.

"Fine," she hissed bitterly, glaring down her nose at him. " _Fine_ , I'll go with them."

He pulled away from her, all smiles and innocence as he re-holstered his gun.

" _Peachy_ ," he hissed, and waved at the unmarked white van behind him, prompting two clowns to jump out.

Harley was unsurprised to discover one of the clowns was Lonnie, whom she had not come to be very fond of from her two experiences with him thus far. He pushed the clown mask up on his head and offered her a brief nod of recognition that she didn't return. From his hoodie, he withdrew a small silver object that looked like a watch battery with two wires attached and held it out to Harley.

"It's a tracker," he explained. "So we know where you are."

Harley held out her bound hands, and Lonnie deposited the tracker in her palm. She thought about dropping it on the concrete and crushing it with her heel or maybe throwing it in the Joker's face. Neither were viable options, and the truth was even if she was pissed about how he was going about it, her curiosity over Penguin's list was piqued, and she was eager to sit across from one of those names to find out why they might be on there in the first place.

"Where ya gonna put it?" the Joker smirked at her lasciviously, a little act for his boys.

Harley's lip curled, a quick fantasy about cracking him over the head with a croquet mallet helping to ease her irritation as she began unbuttoning her blouse until the top of her bra was visible. It wasn't provocative, just basic white cotton, but it was still her underwear, and she grit her teeth knowing they were all staring as she quickly stuffed the tracker in one bra cup before redoing the buttons.

" _Thank_  you," the Joker cooed, swaying closer so he could squint down at her. "Oh, just  _one_  more thing. We, uh, gotta make it look  _real_  so..." He moved so fast Harley didn't have time to prepare herself for the vicious backhand that made her head snap to the side as pain exploded across her jaw and blood filled her mouth.

She gasped at the sudden assault, too surprised to do anything but press her bound hands to her mouth. She felt wetness sliding down her lip and winced, pulling her hands back to stare at the blood streaking across her knuckles. It took a second for Harley to regain her composure, then her head snapped up, and she was glaring into the Joker's face again. A string of thoughtless curses began building on her tongue, but before she had a chance to deliver them, he had turned around without acknowledging her and loped back to the van with Lonnie on his heels.

"In ya get, Dr Quinzel," Sly drawled, gesturing to the still-open trunk.

Harley huffed indignantly, recognizing that she was out of options and had little choice in the matter, but also knowing what her decision would be if she had it.

Moving carefully, she climbed back into the trunk, her bound hands making it a slow process as she hooked one leg over then rolled ungracefully onto her back while Sly and Dough Boy watched. When she found a relatively comfortable position, she settled in and glared up at them, and Dough Boy offered her a resentful sneer before slamming the trunk down, leaving her submerged in darkness.

It was almost a relief, to be alone in the dark and away from infuriating characters like the Joker and his henchmen. She exhaled a long breath and shut her eyes, trying to breathe through the pain of her throbbing mouth. The effort it took to face off with the Joker had zapped her of her remaining energy, and exhaustion settled back into her body, her brain turning to soup and her eyes growing heavy.

As the Oldsmobile's engine sputtered to life and they pulled out of the alley, she tried to envision how this plot to find Cassamento would play out. She would need to be exceptionally careful with her words; if he realized she was bait, she would almost certainly end up dead in the harbor before dawn. She reassured herself that she would be able to bluff this mob boss just like any other man, and if that meant throwing the Joker under the bus to save herself, she would do it. As far as she knew he was still relying on her being let go, though he hadn't made any promises to keep her safe like you might hope an ally would.

Harley rolled onto her side with her hands tucked under her head as she contemplated revealing the Joker's plan to Cassamento and switching sides. She wondered if that would make it more or less likely that she'd be killed. Her eyelids were drooping, and she decided it would be wiser to use her time in the trunk to sleep instead of agonizing over what was waiting for her when she was next released. Lulled by the gentle movement of the car, Harley fell asleep.

* * *

When she woke up, it was to a flashlight shining in her eyes. She groaned unhappily and covered her face with her hands, her sleepy mind slow to catch up to where she was and why she was there. Then she spotted Dough Boy's hulking form behind the glare of the flashlight, and it all came flooding back.

"Get that thing out of my fucking eyes," She complained, which seemed to amuse whoever held the flashlight. There was a round of male chortling that made her bite her tongue, remembering her promise to herself that she would be cautious. She wiped furiously at her eyes with her bound hands, trying to rid herself of the last traces of sleep.

"You sure that's her?" The one with the flashlight asked, still keeping it trained on Harley.

"It's her," Sly drawled, and Harley could see him shove what looked like her wallet at the flashlight man.

"Alright," the one with the flashlight acquiesced, stepping back so that the beam of light bounced away. "Get her out."

Harley didn't struggle as Dough Boy threaded his arms under her armpits and hauled her out of the trunk. He set her on her feet, and Harley searched out the man with the flashlight - short, pudgy, Mediterranean coloring, she noted - and kept her eyes trained on him right up until a burlap sack was tugged down over her head, obscuring her vision.

"Walk," Sly ordered her, and a pair of hands landed on her shoulders, turning her around and walking her about ten feet where she heard a car door open.

"Good job, boys," the flashlight man said. "And good job not busting her up too much. Mr Cassamento thanks you for your service."

There were a few seconds of silence and Harley suspected cash was changing hands, their payment for securing her. Knowing the Joker's men would be gone with their money while she was left alone with a mob thug was not reassuring, but Harley reminded herself that there was a tracker in her bra and that she was not alone. It wasn't especially comforting to know that the only person she could rely on to get her out should she need help was the Joker, so she started working to convince herself that she was perfectly capable of getting out of a sticky situation herself should she need to.

A hand pushed her hard in the back, and she pitched forward, her knees hitting a squishy seat.

"Get in and lay down, stay quiet," the flashlight man told her, and Harley followed his instructions, climbing further into the car's backseat and laying down. The leather smelled like cigarettes, and Harley considered taking another micro-nap as the car started up, but she was wide awake now, her ears straining for any hint of where they may be going.

It was roughly a twenty-minute drive, the thug in the front seat alternating between listening to talk radio and a pop station, but not saying a word to her as he drove. When the car stopped, Harley could tell they had parked on a hill, and she tried to recall what parts of Gotham were especially hilly. She remained quiet when the driver opened the back door and ushered her out, again taking her by the shoulders and frog-marching her up a twisting path that made Harley think they may have been walking through a garden. The sound of sprinklers turning on confirmed her suspicion, and she racked her brain for clues as to where they were.

A door unlocked and she was again marched forward, over a threshold and into a warm room that echoed when the door clicked shut. Then finally the bag over her head was removed, and Harley was blinking rapidly, trying not to be obvious as she took in her surroundings.

It was a richly decorated entry hall with high ceilings and shining hardwood floors covered in Persian carpets. A grandfather clock stood against one wall, a marble-topped table with a stained glass lamp against another. The walls were painted an elegant grey, and hung with paintings Harley could tell were rare and expensive even with her limited knowledge of the art world.

Someone had put a lot of effort into decorating this house, she thought, it wasn't just some scummy place for a mobster to dig information out of her. This was someone's home.

"Alright, come here," said the pudgy man who appeared to be her handler for the evening. He flicked a switchblade open and cut through the tape on Harley's wrists, leaving her to peel the tape off her hands. "You okay?" He asked her, tilting his head to the side to meet her eye.

Harley nodded silently, rubbing her wrists where they were sore. Her handler seemed satisfied with this and gestured for her to follow him down the hallway. It quickly became apparent that not only was she in someone's home, but the people who lived there were home too. On the left was an enormous kitchen with bronze pots hanging over a marble island, a pair of wine glasses sitting beside the sink, one smudged with pink lipstick.

On the right, there was a lavishly-decorated living room, the centerpiece of which was an absurdly large flat screen television, which was currently playing an old episode of  _The Real Housewives of Gotham_  on mute. Harley nearly missed the blonde woman passed out on the couch, wearing a pink robe with her hand stretched out toward a mostly-empty bottle of vodka and a bottle of pills on its side. Harley wondered if she was the one who had decorated the house with so much care.

She still couldn't work out where she was as they moved down the hall, finally coming to a stop in front of a set of double doors, one of which was cracked open. When the pudgy man knocked, there was a soft "Come in" from the other side, and she was nudged into the room, an office, not unlike Penguin's with its oversized desk, squashy armchairs, and lacquered bar cart. But there appeared to be something of a woman's touch to the room, from the art on the walls to the collection of photos on the desk.

Behind the desk sat a man of about sixty, square-jawed and handsome with salt-and-pepper hair and a pair of reading glasses perched at the end of his nose. When he turned his attention to Harley he removed his glasses, looking her over with a critical eye before offering her a seat, and Harley silently accepted it, keeping her hands laced together in her lap.

"Thank you, Gary," Cassamento nodded to his minion, who now stood with his hands folded in front of him, apparently guarding the door. "Dr Quinzel, I'm very sorry if you've been hurt or frightened."

"What do you want with me?" She asked, her voice cracking after not speaking for so long. She sounded scared, and even though she was feeling stupidly brave, she decided scared would be a more sellable way to get herself out of the office alive.

"I want to know about the Joker," Cassamento confessed, standing so he could pour himself a scotch from the bar cart. He dropped a cube of ice into the cut-crystal glass and paused, looking into the ice bucket thoughtfully. "He's dangerous," he said as if he'd only just realized it.

"Yes, incredibly dangerous," Harley agreed. "He's a psychopath. I don't know what else I can tell you that would be helpful..."

"You're nervous," Cassamento observed, returning to his seat and setting his drink on the table. "I understand, and I'm sorry you've had to go through this. I promise we'll drive you home once we finish our conversation. And I would be happy to compensate you for your time too." He placed an envelope thick with cash on the desk and pushed it toward her.

Harley estimated there was around twenty grand stuffed in the envelope, and when Cassamento gestured for her to take it, she quickly slipped it off the desk and it into her coat pocket.

"Help me understand," Cassamento requested slowly, eyeing Harley over the rim of his glass. "What a psychopath is. Why he... does what he does..."

Harley faltered, Cassamento's desperation to find out what he could about the Joker surprising her. He wanted to understand him so he could beat him. Even with ten years' worth of study and research behind her Harley couldn't understand the Joker, let alone explain him.

"He... doesn't feel empathy or remorse," she started slowly. "Something like collateral damage doesn't even occur to him, other than within the context of how it can help him. That means it's hard for him to form emotional or personal relationships with other people. Some psychopaths disdain personal attachments, but for the Joker, other people are incidental unless he can use them for something."

She had always known this to be the case, but sitting there explaining it to a mob boss while there was a tracker in her bra that would lead the Joker right to them made the facts crystalize into unobjectionable reality, and Harley felt a lump of humiliation form in her throat.

"You're saying he ain't got any friends?" Cassamento asked drily. "There's a surprise."

"It's the core of his pathology," Harley explained. "It means he can take life, use life, do whatever he wants without any accountability because the only person he is accountable to is himself. In a way, he almost sees himself as a god because he believes his world view is the only one that matters. A lot of people think that, but those people aren't willing to blow up hospitals to make their points. But that world view, it's just an excuse that allows him to indulge in violence. Sometimes, in our sessions, it sounded like he was... offering salvation to Gotham when what he wants to do is sow chaos and destruction."

"So you think he's nuts? In your professional opinion?"

"Nuts isn't a professional diagnosis," Harley replied evasively. "He has control of his faculties, he doesn't hear voices, and he's highly intelligent. My professional opinion is that he's a high functioning psychopath with narcissistic and criminal tendencies that lead to mass casualties when he is allowed to act without restraint."

Cassamento took a long drink of his scotch then stared into his glass, swirling the ice around as he considered Harley's analysis.

"What are his weaknesses?" He looked her in the eye then. "He doesn't care about money, and you say he's not got any personal attachments, that means there's nothing to use against him. But I believe everyone has a weakness. Even him."

"He'll slip up," Harley shrugged. "He thinks he's infallible, but he will miscalculate eventually, just like he did with those ferries at Gotham Harbor. He sees the world as this cruel, dystopian place full of self-serving people who think and behave just like him - that isn't reality. Even if it takes a hundred hospitals and a few kindergartens to be blown sky high, he will eventually miscalculate again."

"That's not good enough," Cassamento's mouth twisted into a sneer. "I can't just wait around for him to slip up, he needs to be dealt with."

Harley struggled not to roll her eyes. If he thought he'd be getting the answer to taking down the Joker from her, he was sorely mistaken. She opened her mouth to explain that she was just a lowly behavioral psychologist, not a strategic criminal mastermind when the doorbell rang. One long chime like someone was leaning on the bell.

"I'll check it out," Gary offered, slipping out of the office and shutting the door behind him.

"In all the time you spent with him," Cassamento pushed, his eyes focused on his drink again. "Did he ever show you a side of him that you might have thought was more... human than what he is? You know, a man beneath all that crazy."

"No," Harley replied firmly, though it wasn't strictly true. Cassamento meant had the Joker ever shown her his fleshy underbelly, a secret humanity he could exploit, and Harley had not seen anything of the sort. What she had seen was a complicated man, but a man nonetheless. Even if his actions seemed monstrous, there was no denying that he was a mere mortal underneath all that paint.

There was a shout and then a meaty  _ **THWACK**_  from outside the office that made them both turn to face the door. Cassamento stood up behind his desk, his face shifting into an icy mask as he retrieved a pistol from his desk drawer. He flipped the safety off and calmly aimed it at the still-closed door while Harley watched with wide eyes, her heart beginning to thud noisily in her ears as she waited for something to happen.

"Boss!" Gary's voice was weak on the other side of the door. "Mr Cassamento..." he groaned.

"Gary, what the hell is going on out there!" Cassamento demanded.

The office door swung in with a bang and Gary appeared in the doorway, groaning and swaying with blood pouring down the left side of his face from a gash above his eyebrow. The Joker moved into place behind his shoulder, holding a handful of Gary's suit jacket to keep him upright while he pointed a revolver with a long silver barrel at Gary's head. He had topped up his warpaint again, the whites of his eyes standing out stark against the black paint, the red corners of his mouth curling cruelly.

"This looks like  _quite_  the party," he drawled, meeting Harley's eye before turning to stare down the barrel of Cassamento's gun. "Sorry, I'm uh... gonna have to  _crash_  it."

"Joker," Cassamento greeted him grimly. "You think taking my guard hostage is gonna get me to come with you?"

"Oh, I think of him more as a human shield," the Joker purred, prodding the wound on Gary's head with the barrel of his revolver until the pudgy man cried out.

"You've overplayed your hand," Cassamento informed him coldly.

There was a beat of silence before Cassamento pulled the trigger, the sound of a gunshot blending seamlessly with Gary's scream as the bullet embedded itself in his belly.

Harley dove behind her armchair, searching for cover as the Joker's laughter rattled around the room. Peering over the arm of the chair she could see he was holding up a lagging Gary, the man's face rapidly paling as he bled heavily from the gut.

"You think this is funny?" Cassamento demanded, pulling the trigger twice more. One hit Gary in the chest, and the other clipped his shoulder where the Joker had ducked down for cover.

"You shot Gary!" the Joker accused, taking a shot from under Gary's armpit. It struck a photo hanging on the wall as Cassamento dove under his desk for cover. "How  _could_  you!" He took another shot that hit the desk chair, a cloud of synthetic stuffing exploding into the air.

Gary pitched forward, his eyes rolling up in his head and the Joker released him with a huff, letting him collapse to the floor. He fired one last shot at Cassamento that hit the desk before skirting back out into the hallway, his gloved hand appearing briefly to shoot blindly into the room.

"Come on Joker, you're better than that," Cassamento taunted, his head and shoulders appearing over the desk. He shot at the wall where the Joker had disappeared for cover, finished the clip before he ducked back under his desk to reload. The Joker's hand appeared again, and he let off another haphazard shot that hit the ceiling, nowhere near Cassamento's desk.

Harley was crouched behind the armchair, frozen with indecision as she watched the two men trade bullets and barbs. Her ears were ringing, making it hard to concentrate on making a decision. Hiding seemed like the smart thing to do. Escaping also seemed smart, but Harley didn't see how that was plausible, and she didn't know where she would go or how she would get there. That brought her back to hiding, the smart choice, but she didn't like that choice, and her current hiding place behind the armchair wasn't ideal. She didn't want a better hiding place - she wanted to  _do_  something.

"Joker! Are you dead yet?" Cassamento appeared above the desk again and shot at the Joker, who had curled around the wall, squinting theatrically through one eye as he aimed and took another terrible shot before returning to cover.

Harley wanted to shout at him, tell him to get his act together because right now, his plan was completely coming apart at the seams. Even more concerning to Harley was that the longer they stuck around, the more likely it became that they wouldn't be left alone. There was a woman out on the couch, not to mention neighbors who would be sure to call the cops after all the shooting. Harley had enough plausible deniability should the cops show up, but she still felt compelled to do more than  _hide._

She waited for them to exchange another round of bullets before Cassamento dove back under his desk to reload, then she darted out from behind the chair and flung herself out into the hallway. A bullet from Cassamento's gun nicked the door frame where she disappeared behind it, a burst of splintered wood following her. She heard the _zip zip zip_  of bullets hitting the other side of the wall she was leaning against, her pulse stuttering with each  _zip._ She exhaled a shaky breath and looked over at the Joker, her mouth falling open when she saw he was sitting against the wall with his long legs splayed out in front of him, the revolver hanging loose in his hand while he typed out a message on a burner phone.

"You're on the  _phone?!_ " She hissed, and she saw his mouth curve up on one side even though he didn't look at her.

"It's is called  _drawing them out_ ," he drawled, his words getting lost beneath the sound of Cassamento's gun. "He'll come out eventually, just be  _patient..."_

Harley scowled in frustration, not understanding what the point in half-assing an assassination was, though she was sure there was a 'point' coming. There was another  _zip zip zip_  of bullets hitting the wall behind her, and she decided she didn't have time to sit around and wait for whatever this big  _point_  was, nor did she care to wait for the cops or Cassamento's cavalry if he had one coming.

A terrible but workable plan came to her, the bullets hitting the wall behind her making her reckless, and she began to crawl down the hallway, sticking close to the wall. Once she'd made it to the kitchen, she jumped to her feet and rushed to the sink, the gunfire almost as deafening from there as it has been in the office. She found a kitchen knife beside the sink and picked it up by the handle, eyeing the blade nervously. It was sharp, a Japanese brand printed on the side. Harley took a breath, trying to clear her head and prepare herself before she leaped back out into the hallway and into the living room.

The woman on the couch was awake but only just, her heavily painted eyes fluttering weakly even with the sounds of a firefight echoing around her. A glance at the pebble-sized diamond on her left ring finger suggested she was Mrs Cassamento, and Harley lowered herself to her knees to examine the bottle of pills spilled across the floor. Muscle relaxers, the strong kind prescribed after surgery instead of the kind used for emotional housewives, though it appeared Mrs Cassamento liked to mix them with her martinis. Harley felt a twinge of sadness for her, just a little inkling of empathy, and it was enough to make her pause and reevaluate what she was about to do.

Unfortunately for Mrs Cassamento, she was the best and the only card Harley had to play, so she shoved her sadness aside and hauled the older woman to her feet. Even though Mrs Cassamento was stoned out of her mind, she was still responsive enough to stand as Harley wrapped an arm around her waist and grabbed a handful of her robe to keep her upright. She and nudged the other woman back out into the hall, and down to the office where there was a lull in the gunfire.

The Joker looked up as Harley dragged the half-conscious Mrs Cassamento into the open doorway, his eyebrows lifting a fraction when he saw the knife angled at the woman's throat.

"Hey!" Harley snapped, feeling her heart slam against her breastbone when Cassamento appeared above his desk, slamming a new clip into his gun as his eyes landed on Harley. She had envisioned him throwing down his weapon and putting his hands up, but when his eyes narrowed to slits, Harley realized she had just played a hand that she would not be coming back from.

"I see," he sneered, his eyes shifting between Harley's face and the blade at his wife's throat. "So, you belong to the Joker now."

"I don't belong to anyone," Harley bit back. "I want to go home and sleep. To make that happen, I need you to leave that office."

"You will not survive this," Cassamento hissed, pointing his gun at Harley. "You said it yourself. He will use you just like everyone else."

"Yeah, I know," Harley said flatly, the words tasting sour in her mouth.

Cassamento's elbow straightened, and suddenly Harley couldn't tell if he wouldn't shoot his wife to get to her if he had to, just like he'd shot Gary. He was just as bad as the Joker and every other thug Harley had met so far. Life and death meant nothing to any of them, power and survival the only currency they traded in. For the first time, Harley could see how genuinely bleak the world around her was, if only because men like Cassamento ruled it, and she knew she needed to choose if she was going to live to see another day that Santo Cassamento would not.

Harley's grip on the knife tightened, and she felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, staring into an abyss far below. She took a deep breath, trying to block out the blood roaring monstrously in her ears as she pulled the knife back and stabbed Mrs Cassamento in the chest.

Mrs Cassamento moaned weakly, her head falling back against Harley's shoulder as her body went limp and a blossom of blood began to grow on her robe.

"No!" Cassamento screamed, rushing forward thoughtlessly.

Harley attempted to wrench the knife out of his wife's body so she could defend herself, but it was stuck fast. Cassamento had his pistol raised as he kicked aside an armchair, his teeth bared and his eyes glistening. The thought, _I killed his wife, I deserve this_ , floated through Harley's mind, and everything around her seemed to slow down as she absorbed the hatred in his eyes as he cursed her and fingered the trigger of his gun.

Cassamento stomped over the threshold of his office, out into the hallway, and when his foot landed on the hardwood floor, the Joker was at his side. Moving almost elegantly, he raised the revolver to Cassamento's head and shot him through the ear. There was a spray of blood that hit the wall, and Cassamento fell lifeless to the floor.

The blood in Harley's ears continued to roar, deafening her as she looked down at the body in her arms, and the reality of what she'd done hit her like a ton of bricks. She pulled her arms free, and Mrs Cassamento collapsed to the floor beside her husband.

The Joker raked a hand through his hair as he looked between the two bodies, probing the scar crossing his bottom lip with his tongue.

"Well...  _shit_ ," he said.

* * *

**A/N: Aw, shit.**

**Next: Harley copes with killing Cassamento's wife while attempting to maintain her normal life at Arkham.**

**We're getting so close to the end of Part 1!**

**Review, please! And thank you to all those reading.**


	10. Chapter 10

The Harlequin

10.

* * *

"Well...  _shit_ ," the Joker huffed, looking down at the bodies. They formed a path into the office, which was in disarray after the shoot out. Bullet holes in the walls and the desk and fluff from the chairs floating to the floor.

Harley stared down at Mrs Cassamento, feeling a lump form in her throat as she watched blood soak the pink satin around the knife still sticking out of her chest. That same sweet numbness she'd felt for Walsh swept over her again, making it easy not to answer any of the hard questions she should have been asking herself. Like why she had felt compelled to stab this woman through the heart, or why she had helped the Joker in the first place, or why she was still standing there in a mobster's house with blood drying on her hands and a body at her feet.

"We have to get out of here," Harley said, her voice strong even though her insides felt like they had liquefied.

The Joker either didn't hear her or ignored her outright, stepping carelessly over the corpses as he headed for the bar cart beside Cassamento's desk.

"And what do you mean,  _well shit_?" Harley demanded, watching as he sniffed the contents of a crystal decanter then slopped a few fingers of brown liquor into a glass. He drained the glass and slapped it down on the cart, filled it again and swallowed that before turning to face her, one gloved finger pointing down at Mrs Cassamento.

_"That,"_  he growled. "Is Katarina Cassamento, the  _sister_  of the head of the Russian mob."

Harley could only stare at him as he made himself a third drink, having a hard time deciding which of her many questions she should ask first.

"There's a Russian mob?"

His shoulders shook with quiet laughter, and he dropped the crystal lid back on the decanter. "Oh,  _yeah_ ," was all he said.

"And why do you care about the Russian mob?" Harley asked uneasily, sensing he wasn't interested in discussing the subject further. "You don't care about anyone."

But the Joker just ignored her, squatting down to flick the knife handle protruding from Katarina's chest. "Jeez, you're pretty  _strong_ ," he observed, shooting her a sidelong look and flicking the knife handle again. "That's  _really_ stuck in there."

"I didn't exactly have a choice," Harley protested, and when he shot her a knowing smirk, she threw her hands up in frustration. "You were shooting at the wall! It's not like their neighbors wouldn't hear it. I am  _not_  going to jail because of  _your_  shitty plan! "

He swiftly rose to stand, his much larger frame towering over Harley's as he leveled her with a dubious look like he could see straight through her protestations to the regret she was feeling beneath. There were a few seconds of silence where he seemed to be debating something with himself, then he shrugged like he was accepting an inevitable fate.

" _Santo_ here had a Glock 19 and four rounds of ammunition stashed in this desk," he informed her, and when Harley opened her mouth to ask how he could possibly know that he spoke over her. "And right about  _now_  he'd be out of bullets, and I'd be strollin' in to take care of him. Easy as  _pie. Meanwhile,_ " he continued like he was telling a child a story. " _Lonnie_  has been blocking cell reception and all 911 calls in the area, so we've got about uh..." he checked the gold pocket watch hanging from his waistcoat. "Twenty minutes in change before the  _fuzz_  arrive."

He brushed past her, down the hall and into the kitchen, and Harley watched him walk away with frustration brewing inside her. If she'd _known_  this plan in advance, she wouldn't have had to kill Katarina Cassamento. That she'd  _had_  to kill her was extremely debatable, but for now, Harley decided to tell herself she'd not had a choice. More concerning was how  _easy_  it had been. Grown men were known to vomit after killing people, but Harley didn't feel sick in the slightest... just strangely numb and frustrated.

Not entirely clear on what she was supposed to do after murdering a person, Harley hurried after the Joker into the kitchen where she found him ripping through cupboards. He dug through the Cassamento's possessions, flinging open drawers with his customary flourish and slamming them shut again before moving on to the next. Finally, when he got to the cupboards under the sink, he appeared to find he'd been looking for - trash bags and a grocery sack. He ripped off two large black bags from the roll and, after a brief pause, shoved them both into Harley's hands.

She stoically accepted them and trailed back down the hall after him, too overwhelmed to do much but follow his lead as he grabbed Cassamento by the ankles and dragged him out into the hallway, then squatted down beside him. Cassamento's head was still bleeding, a syrupy pool of blood forming beneath him on the hardwood floor. The Joker prodded the hole where the bullet had entered his skull and hummed thoughtfully.

"That's disgusting," Harley said soberly, making sure to scowl when he smirked at her.

Then she watched - half horrified, and half intrigued - as the Joker hooked a CVS bag over Cassamento's head and tied the handles securely around his neck before looking up at her expectantly.

Sighing in resignation, Harley shook out the two large trash bags and handed one to the Joker before kneeling beside Cassamento's feet. She focused on the task at hand instead of her recent bad choices, fishing through the bag until she found the seam at the bottom before she sheathed Cassamento's legs in the bag while the Joker did the same with his head and shoulders. Working in silence together, they inched the bags over the body until they met each other in the middle, Harley smoothing out the wrinkles while the Joker snagged a roll of duct tape from the depths of his coat.

He ripped off a long strip of tape with his teeth then tossed the roll to Harley, who did the same, then together they looped the tape around Cassamento's body, binding his arms and legs beneath the black plastic. When they'd finished, the Joker pushed Cassamento's body into a sitting position and hauled him up while Harley took hold of Cassamento's legs, and together they lifted the body.

"What about them?" Harley asked, inclining her head to the two bodies they'd left behind as they waddled down the hallway, Cassamento swinging between them. He was heavier than he looked and her arms were straining with the effort of carrying him.

"Eh," the Joker grunted, trying to get a better grip on Cassamento. "Penguin doesn't care about them."

"Collateral damage," Harley said softly, thinking about what she'd told Cassamento only twenty minutes earlier. And here she was accepting two unnecessary deaths as nothing more than that.

They struggled out the front door and down a short garden path, the Joker's eyes darting left and right for signs of trouble while Harley concentrated on not dropping the body.

The unmarked white van was waiting for them at the curb, Sly and Dough Boy in the front seats, their clunky Oldsmobile parked in front of the van. When Harley and the Joker brought the body around to the back of the van Lonnie pushed the doors open and the Joker jumped in, helping Lonnie drag Cassamento into the back while Harley looked back at the Cassamentos' house.

It was a nice, upper-middle-class townhouse on a tree-lined street. The houses beside it were nearly identical with the same well-manicured lawns, and Harley placed them somewhere north of Uptown like Otisburg, a nice part of town full of families and good school districts. The porches were displaying creatively carved jack-o-lanterns and other upscale Halloween decorations. She wondered if any of the nice normal people on this street knew their neighbor was a mob boss, or if they thought of him as just another friendly, affluent member of the community.

"J," Lonnie said, tossing a set of keys to the Joker. He caught them easily and hopped out of the van, slamming the doors shut behind him as soon as his feet hit the concrete, then headed for the Oldsmobile.

The van began to pull away from the curb, leaving Harley to work out for herself if she was expected to follow the Joker or fend for herself. She'd lost track of the difference between what she'd been forced into doing and what she'd done of her own free will, maybe because it was easier to live with her choices in that context. She tried to imagine hunting down a taxi that would take her home, but one look at her blood-spattered shirt and any smart cab driver would speed off into the night.

So once again, Harley found herself following the Joker. She slid into the passenger seat of the Oldsmobile as he started the engine, shooting her a curious look as she buckled her seatbelt and kept her eyes straight ahead. If he was smirking at her or lifting a smug eyebrow she didn't want to see it, but as he maneuvered the car onto the dark suburban street Harley sensed she was the last thing on his mind.

He drove with his shoulders hunched up around his ears like he was trying to hide, and Harley belatedly realized that was exactly what he was doing. His teeth ground together and his eyes rolled back and forth, checking his mirrors obsessively - keeping an eye out for something  _specific_.

"What are you looking for?" Harley asked nervously, trying to see what he was seeing out the windshield.

"Cops," he muttered shortly, letting his hands splay out on the steering wheel before clenching them shut again.

"Cops? Well don't you think  _this,"_  Harley gestured to her face, indicating his affinity for warpaint. "Might make us a little suspicious?"

"I'd ask  _you_  to drive but uh..." he sneered as he flicked on his turn signal. "Look at your  _hands_."

Harley did as he suggested, lifting one of her hands up to her face, and no matter how dim the light was in the car she could still see her fingers shaking unsteadily. She stared at her trembling hand, feeling exhaustion begin to crash over her, and she folded her fingers into a fist. Whether she was shaking because she hadn't slept in two days or because she had killed a woman, she didn't know for sure.

"Where are we going?" She asked, knowing by the tension in his jaw that she was pushing her luck with the questions.

"Food," he snarled, spinning the wheel as they turned onto a wider avenue with small grocery stores and pharmacies.

Harley dug her fist into her thigh, taking note of the names of the closed storefronts they passed. She was pretty sure there was a metro station in Otisburg that would get her back to her apartment in just over an hour. The car's clock radio informed her that it was nearing four in the morning, which gave her two hours until her shift at Arkham started. She swallowed thickly and closed her eyes as a concession to her sleep-deprived body. She did  _not_  want to think about what working for twelve hours without sleeping would feel like.

"I liked you better when you talked more," she informed the Joker, her voice sounding stronger than she felt.

She heard him chuckle low in his throat, and she looked over at him in time to see his eyes crinkle up in the corners as his mouth spread out into a private grin. His warpaint was starting to wear off, large patches of peachy skin showing through where the white paint was fading, and for a second Harley could imagine what he might have looked like laughing without the paint or the scars. She hadn't tried to picture him without the scars before, not in all the hours she'd spent with him at Arkham or the terrifying times she'd seen him since. But she could see it now.

"I'm so tired," she said, not meaning to voice the thought out loud.

" _Yeah_ ," the Joker agreed cheerfully, still glaring out at the road as he turned down a side street "Killing mob bosses and their wives really takes it outta you."

Harley turned her head to face him. "I have to be at Arkham in two hours."

"Can't you like, take a sick day?" He made a face as he turned onto a street lined with duplexes that looked like they'd seen better days.

"I never take sick days," Harley said, eyeing the houses they passed. Where there had been gardens, there was now concrete, and instead of tissue paper ghosts and Jack-o-Lanterns, these houses were smeared with rotten eggs and the squishy remains of smashed pumpkins. "It would be suspicious," she added.

The Joker snorted wryly, as if he had a very different idea of what counted as suspicious, but before Harley could explain her thinking, he pulled into one of the duplexes' driveways and turned off the engine. He clambered out from behind the wheel as the headlights died, and after a second of hesitation, Harley joined him, too tired to envision what terrible scenario she might find herself in next. She'd been taken to gang bars, a slaughterhouse, a mob boss's family home, and shuffled between trunks. Whatever came next was sure to be more of the same.

With Harley trailing close behind, the Joker dodged down a set of concrete steps leading to a front door. He squatted down beside the door to pick up a painted toad figurine and fumbled with it until he produced a key, then rose back up to his feet and unlocked the door. Harley's exhaustion was briefly abated as she braced herself for whatever they would find inside the apartment.

But it was just a typical apartment, with an average living room that looked well-kept if not in need of some redecoration. The walls were covered in pale blue floral wallpaper that might have been stylish a couple of decades earlier. The big squashy sofa and matching armchairs were upholstered in more florals and sat facing an old television jutting out of a clunky media unit. The room stank of cigarettes covered in cleaning supplies.

On the other side of the living room, there was a short hallway that might have led to bedrooms, and perpendicular to that was an open archway leading into a kitchen full of more florals. Bruno appeared in that archway, wearing a terry cloth robe over striped pajamas, a coffee cup in his hand, and when Harley's brain registered what she was seeing she couldn't help but laugh, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.

"Nice ta see you too, Harley," Bruno said as the Joker pushed past him to get to the kitchen. After lingering in the doorway for as long as she could, Harley eventually followed him again.

The kitchen, like the living room, was decorated in an excess of florals, this time purples and pinks, and there was a round wooden table crowded by chairs in the middle of the room. Harley watched the Joker fling himself into one of these chairs, black coffee sloshing over the rim of a mug he'd already procured for himself, his coat and jacket both draped over the back of the chair.

"You hungry?" Bruno asked Harley as she lowered herself into a seat at the table, her eyes trained on the Joker as he began unbuttoning his shirt sleeves and rolling them up to his elbows.

"Yes," Harley admitted, and her stomach gave a sudden, almost painful lurch when she tried to remember the last thing she'd eaten - a slice of Rosa's carrot cake in the break room at work. " _Yes,"_  she said with more certainty.

Bruno retrieved a stack of take-out boxes from a fridge in the corner, dropping them on the table along with a couple of forks.

Harley nibbled on some fried rice, her eyes on a clock shaped like a cat on the wall instead of the Joker, who quickly worked his way through one box of take-out before starting on a second like he was aiming to swallow calories rather than taste the food itself. She let her eyes drift down his arm to his elbow where he'd rolled up his sleeve, exposing a wiry forearm covered with sparse fair hairs. Harley watched the tendons in his arm shift as he flexed his hand around the fork, mesmerized as if she'd never seen a man's arm before. She forced her eyes back over to the cat clock on the wall as its hands struck 4.30 AM, and stood up on shaky legs.

"I need to... go," she said haltingly, looking at Bruno instead of the Joker. She couldn't look at him anymore. She knew he was squinting up at her curiously over his box of take-out, but she ignored him, telling herself she didn't care.

"You can't go anywhere like that," Bruno said, gesturing to her blood-spattered shirt, and before Harley could say anything, he added. "Ya smell like you've been in a firefight."

Harley's eyes began to burn with exhaustion and frustration and confusion, and for a terrible second, she thought she was going to burst into tears in the middle of Bruno's kitchen while the Joker gleefully watched with a mouthful of drunken noodles. But the moment passed, and instead of crying, she sucked in a deep breath, trying to envision a plan for getting to Arkham in an hour and a half without smelling like gunpowder.

"Can I use your shower?" She asked, grateful when Bruno nodded and showed her out of the kitchen and down a short hall that led to two bedrooms and a bathroom.

Like the rest of the house, the bathroom was all florals - these were yellow - and standard suburban fare. If she hadn't been so tired, Harley might have been curious about why the Joker's right-hand man lived in an apartment decorated for a young family, but right now her priority was cleaning the death off her skin and getting to work.

She turned the cold tap on and stepped into the bathtub, the freezing spray instantly making her head ache, but also nudging her exhaustion away.

It had been easy to shoot the henchmen at the pier, and almost as easy to leave Walsh to die. Then there had been  _that_  night years ago with her college boyfriend. But those men had all been openly antagonistic to her, and thus far she'd been able to ignore the niggling knowledge that being so  _ambivalent_  about their deaths was patently wrong. But killing Katarina had been unnecessary and impulsive, and  _far_  too easy.

It wasn't guilt she felt, but a sense that there was something  _deeply_  wrong with her because she  _wasn'_ t feeling guilty. That she was no better than the Joker or Maroni or any of the other men she might have previously - might still - classify as  _evil._

Harley had never seen herself as a monster before, but the choices she made seemed to indicate she was.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force her thoughts away from her wickedness to how she would get to Arkham where she could sleep in her office. After she slept, she would be able to think more clearly on what she'd done and what it meant, and perhaps the world would offer her an answer, one she wouldn't be able to refuse.

After drying off with a butter-yellow towel, Harley found a comb on the sink to slick her wet hair back, then re-dressed in her rumpled, stained clothes from the day before. She sniffed her coat and cringed. It really did smell of gunpowder. Her phone informed her that she now had one hour to get to Arkham, and that meant there was no time to go home and change. She would just have to find an alternative solution.

With her coat under her arm, Harley slipped out of the bathroom, hoping she'd be able to make a quick and quiet getaway.

Obviously, that was too much to ask.

The Joker was waiting for her outside the bathroom, with one bare foot braced against the wall he was leaning against. He rolled his head toward her, his gaze shifting over her dirty clothes as she examined him in turn.

Most of his warpaint had been wiped away aside from some white in his hairline and black above one eyebrow. Along with his shoes and socks, he'd removed his tie and waistcoat, suspenders and gloves. His patterned lilac shirt was still rolled up to his elbows, untucked and hanging open, exposing a sliver of his chest and stomach.

Harley's pulse jumped as she stepped out of the bathroom, glaring at him with as much hatred as she could muster. She didn't blame him for her predicament, not really, but the way he was watching her - intensely, curiously - made her want to loathe him. Her mind was too confused as it was, and she didn't need him staring at her like a sphinx added into the mix.

He raised his arm, her bag dangling from his index finger as the beginnings of one of his most irritating smirks began to form on his mouth. Harley's lips tightened into a flat line, and she focused on hatred as she snatched the bag away from him and stomped down the short hallway.

She almost stormed past Bruno, who was standing in the doorway of one of the bedrooms, two coffee cups in hand and a soft, sad smile on his face as he offered her one.

"I told ya, ya can't go out like that," he reminded her, over the sound of the bathroom door slamming shut and the pipes squealing as the shower turned on.

"I don't have much of a choice," Harley replied quietly, accepting the cup of coffee he offered her and gulping down a mouthful.

"You're about the same size as my wife," Bruno told her gently, pushing the bedroom door behind him open. "We'll find ya something."

Harley nearly choked on her coffee when she stepped into the room.

The walls were pink, decorated with My Little Pony wallpaper and family photos. Photos of Bruno smiling proudly with a pretty woman and a little girl. There was a twin bed in the corner, covered in pink pillows with ruffles and a My Little Pony bedspread. Dozens of cardboard boxes had been stacked around the room, a thick layer of dust gathering on them.

Harley looked up at Bruno, knowing in her gut that something terrible had happened to his family, and her throat tightened when he offered her a grim smile before turning toward a mirrored closet. Harley silently followed him, not sure what to make of what she was being shown - something tragic and painful - but knowing she needed Bruno's help if he was offering it.

"She loved gettin' dressed up," Bruno said, sliding the mirrored door aside to reveal a closet full of garment bags and shoeboxes. "Take whatever ya need," he added.

"Thank you," Harley said softly, and Bruno nodded before shuffling out of the room and closing the door behind him to give her some privacy.

Harley watched him go, trying to reconcile how one of the Joker's most loyal henchmen could have such a soft, sad side to him. Bruno could be cruel when he needed to be, and he could take a life if it served his purposes. But in the same house that he gave sanctuary to a terrorist, he also kept a room devoted to his wife and daughter who, Harley had to assume, had been taken from him somehow.

Monsters. Good and evil. They weren't such clear concepts, after all.

Exhaling a long, conflicted breath, Harley unzipped one of the garment bags. It was full of flamboyant daywear, a collection of colorful suits in various cuts and colors and silk blouses. Harley shifted through them until she found a suit that would potentially draw the least amount of attention to her at Arkham.

She got changed in front of a mirror sized for a child, in a frame of white enamel printed with butterflies. The suit's pants were a bold gray and green plaid, high-waisted and skinny and nothing like what Harley would have ever chosen for herself. A relatively plain pale silk blouse followed, but when she shrugged the suit jacket on, Harley felt ridiculous. It was flattering, but who the hell wore plaid suits? She stepped into the lowest pair of Mrs Bruno's heels she could find and shoveled Cassamento's cash out of her old coat and into her bag, then finally set off.

She had forty minutes to get to Arkham, and with Bruno's sad history distracting her from her own problems, Harley was feeling a fraction more like herself but no less exhausted. That nap in her office was still waiting for her, and now she was fantasizing about getting sleep in the cab too.

It sounded like Bruno had gone to bed, so Harley took her empty coffee cup to the kitchen, intending to wash it out as a small sign of her gratitude. She didn't know if she would see Bruno again and cleaning her cup seemed to be the least she could do. But when she stepped into the kitchen, she stopped short. There  _he_  was again, drinking a cup of coffee and leaning against the sink, his eyes intensely focused on the kitchen table like he was deep in thought.

Maybe he wasn't waiting for her, or maybe he was. His hair was still wet from the shower and his face was clean, and he had changed into a black tee-shirt and black jeans with a hole in the knee, every layer of the Joker peeled away until he could have been any other normal man even with the scars marring his face. Normal was a word Harley was struggling with, but it was at the other end of the spectrum from the technicolor macabre he presented in a purple suit and face paint.

His eyes darted over to her then, gleaming like a tiger, and the impression of anything  _normal_  was immediately washed away. He looked her over quickly, taking in Mrs Bruno's suit with a lack of expression that felt intentional, as if he was hiding something from her when he usually so thoroughly enjoyed sharing his likes and dislikes on trivial things.

Harley carefully approached the sink like she was skirting a wild animal and set her mug in the basin.

It was time to go. She had to leave. Maybe she wouldn't see him again, but that was a good thing.

She turned on the faucet and washed the mug out before setting it on the drying rack, painfully aware of the Joker watching her.

When she'd lingered as long as she reasonably could she turned to face him, her hip braced against the sink as she gazed up at him. She told herself not to be affected by him, not like everyone else was, but it was impossible to ignore him. The difference was 'everyone else' was terrified of him, but what he made her feel was far more complicated than fear. She licked her lips and tried to think of something to say in farewell.

_Well, it's been fun._

_Fuck you, I hate you and what you've dragged me into._

_Goodbye, asshole._

His expression was grim as he stepped closer to her, sending a nervous shiver racing up Harley's spine and down her arms, leaving her fingertips tingling. He was so close his bare feet were nearly touching the pointed toes of her shoes, and her eyes widened as he lifted one hand to her face, his fingers resting lightly against her cheek.

Harley held her breath when his hand slid into her hair to cradle the back of her head, his eyes darting around her face quickly before he bowed down to kiss her. Harley's eyes closed when he took her bottom lip between his, sucking it softly as she moved closer, her hands sliding up to rest on his chest where she could feel his heart beating steadily beneath her palm. She held back until she felt his tongue brush against her lip, and then she leaned into him, kissing him back eagerly.

She had to tamp down the impulse to push him up against the sink and demand more from him. She wanted to bite and scratch and devour, but the pace he set was mind-numbingly slow, making her toes curl with each long, luxurious slide of his tongue against hers, his thumb rhythmically stroking the back of her neck the whole time. It paralyzed that need to attack, that need for violence, and Harley sighed softly into his mouth as she felt a strange mix of calm and arousal sweep through her.

This was  _much_  better.

When he pulled away, she opened her eyes to stare up at him, surprise filling in the gaps between desire. His expression was still as grim as it had been before, and her lips parted to say something, but all she could come with was ' _More'_  so she said nothing at all.

She licked her lips anxiously and stepped back, and his hand fell back down by his side. Her mind was muddled with sensation as she forced herself to turn around and grab her bag off the kitchen table. Suddenly she was all too aware of her heart thumping in her chest and the need to  _escape_  hit her hard. She practically ran from the kitchen, expecting a dry comment or a wicked laugh to follow her, to inform her that he had tricked her, but nothing came.

Harley fled the apartment into the near-dawn outside, her head spinning as she tried to get her bearings on the quiet street. Her heels clicked along on the sidewalk as she put as much distance between herself and  _him_  as possible until she finally spotted a cab heading toward her and flagged it down.

As the cab pulled away from the curb, Harley closed her eyes, wanting nothing more than the sweet relief of sleep to stop her from thinking about what had just transpired in Bruno's kitchen. But no matter how exhausted she was, when she closed her eyes, all she saw were his dark eyes studying her while the taste of him lingered on her tongue.

* * *

The Iceberg Lounge had pulled in half a million dollars in one night, and Penguin was feeling pretty damned pleased with himself as he reclined in his office, a glass of merlot in hand. Louis and Lucy sat across from him, Lucy sharing what she'd seen transpire in the club that evening as she smoked a joint, Louis frowning as he listened to the gossip that qualified as intelligence.

Dawn was approaching, and Penguin was starting to feel a little drunk, but to hell with it. Everything was falling into place.

A scream from the kitchens suddenly ripped through their jolly group. Louis jumped to his feet, drawing his pistol while Lucy flicked open the jackknife she kept in her boot. Louis took the lead, ducking out of the office to scout the kitchen as the screaming continued, more shrill than it had been before. Louis turned back to Penguin and Lucy and shook his head, indicating it was all clear, and they edged out of the office carefully.

The screaming turned out to be Felicity, one of the dancers Lucy had brought from Grin and Bare It to waitress. Felicity was an idiot, so it came as no surprise to find her screaming her head off as she stared horrified into the walk-in freezer.

"What the hell is going on!" Penguin demanded, shoving Felicity out of the way.

He choked back a laugh when he saw it. Santo Cassamento's body propped up in the corner of the freezer. His body had been wrapped in black trash bags, his blood-flecked face exposed where the bag was ripped open, the bullet wound on the right side of his head still oozing.

Louis and Lucy crowded behind Penguin to see what all the fuss about, and Lucy whined a very appropriate,  _"Ewwww."_

"Well!" Penguin replied jovially, beaming. "I suppose this means the Joker is working for us now."

* * *

The cab dropped Harley off a few blocks away from Arkham. She wasn't sure if it was genuinely suspicious to be seen taking a taxi to work, but her paranoia was at an all-time high, and reasonably so with the specter of her recent nocturnal activities hovering over her. She needed to be careful.

She didn't sleep in the cab, spending the entire hour-long ride trying to understand what had happened in Bruno's kitchen. The Joker had kissed her, and it had been slow and sensual and entirely at odds with everything she knew about him. Worse than that, it had been normal. He kissed her like a  _normal_  man, not a monster or a sadist or a cruel bastard. And it had been good.

It had been  _really_  good.

As the cab passed through Uptown, she decided it had to be a manipulation tactic. Something to make her question herself and her motives more than she already was. Something to slowly drive her insane.

When they got to Midtown, she realized it could have been a reward for killing Mrs Cassamento. He wanted to see her brought down to his level, just like he'd done to Harvey Dent, and in true psychopathic fashion, she had been rewarded for her behavior.

Passing through Downtown, Harley started to consider the impossible idea that it had been nothing more than what it was. He had just wanted to kiss her, and he'd done it. It was so horrifically simple, and just so...  _normal_.

_Better_  than normal.

When they hit the Narrows bridge, her tired mind wandered back to that fraction of a second when they'd pulled back to look at each other, just before she'd nearly sprinted out of the kitchen.

She'd felt calm. The anxiety over her shocking choices washed away, leaving her blissfully calm.

Calm and  _incredibly_  turned on.

Harley's knees knocked together as she closed her eyes and tried to block out those unfortunate feelings.

_Shit._

When the cab reached Elizabeth Arkham Avenue Harley's eyes were stinging with exhaustion, and her head was too fogged to think about anything other than the couch in her office where she would finally be able to close her eyes, even for just a short time.

She passed through the front gate, waving to the guard as she always did, her destination crystal clear in her mind...

... until she saw the police cruiser parked beside Arkham's main entrance.

For a split second, Harley contemplated running, literally running back through the gate and down the street to God only knew where. But she forced her legs to keep moving, up the steps, through reception, and into the asylum.

"Wow, you're very stylish today, Dr Quinzel!" Rosa grinned from behind the nurse's station. "Got a hot date tonight?"

"No," Harley managed to give Rosa a small smile. "Hey, I saw a police car outside - is everything okay?"

Rosa sighed and rolled her eyes up like she was saying a silent prayer. "They're here about Dr Walsh..." she shook her head sadly. "His poor wife must be losing her mind. I don't know what I would do if my Geraldo didn't come home. Can you imagine?"

"No," Harley agreed, her cheeks warming as she recalled Walsh the last time she'd seen him - unresponsive on the floor of an old freezer in a slaughterhouse. "It must be awful."

"I expect they'll want to talk to you," Rosa continued, offering a stack of patient charts to Harley, who accepted them warily. "Should I send them to your office? They're just speaking to Hassan and MacIntyre, you know, because they've been heading up security since... well... you know." Her big brown eyes glistened with unshed tears for their fallen colleagues, and Harley could only nod woodenly before making a swift exit with the patient charts clutched to her chest.

"Also!" Rosa called after her. "They've called an emergency board meeting this afternoon. I've added it to your diary!"

Harley called a weak "Thanks" over her shoulder and hurried on to her office, sleep becoming less likely with each step she took.

She went through the familiar routine of changing into her lab coat and scanning patient charts while she waited for her computer boot up. But as she squinted down at the text, the ink seemed to blur on the page, and it took her sleep-deprived mind longer than it should have to realize the charts were for patients Harley herself had deemed good candidates for the next round of the Elliot drug trials. Her eyes straining, Harley read through the inmates' histories, stoically making notes in the margins on dosages and implementation and questioning during sessions.

As she tried to focus on her work, her mind rotated over the question of what the fuck she would tell the cops about Walsh. That he was a pig and misogynist, a shameless opportunist who had leaked sensitive internal information to the media for his own financial gain. That he treated Harley like a child while simultaneously using her.

That Penguin had kidnapped him as a  _gift_  for the Joker, a gift that was really for Harley.

She hadn't even thought about what  _that_  meant.

Harley ran a hand through her hair, exhaling a hollow breath as she peered down at the lines of text detailing an inmate's crimes and delusions, and commanded herself to focus. If she didn't do her work, she would draw unwanted attention to herself, and unwanted attention would lead to questions she did not want to answer, especially not with the police crawling over Arkham.

After two excruciating hours, Rosa knocked on Harley's door and poked her head in.

"Dr Quinzel, are you free to..." she trailed off, looking over her shoulder nervously.

Harley steeled herself, nodding stiffly as Rosa pushed the door open wider to reveal a pair of detectives. The first was a weathered-looking cop with a graying beard and a trilby covering his scraggly red hair, while the other almost looked too young to be a cop, his keen eyes darting around Harley's office suspiciously.

"Hello," she said, plastering on her most patient smile and gesturing to the armchairs facing her desk. "Please, take a seat. Tell me how I can help."

Rosa pulled the door shut as she stepped back out into the hallway, and the two detectives shuffled awkwardly into the office, the older one falling gracelessly into one chair while the younger one lowered himself down slowly, his eyes still searching in the room for clues.

"Thank you for taking the time to see us, Dr Quinzel," the older one said, gesturing between himself and his partner as he hunkered forward. "I'm Detective Bullock, and this is my partner, Detective Li... I'm sure you're aware that Murphy Walsh was reported missing by his wife and didn't show up to work yesterday."

"Yes," Harley wiped away her patient smile, exchanging it for a concerned frown. "Dr Walsh's wife was in touch with his secretary yesterday - she informed us that he hadn't come home the night before."

"Do you have any reason to believe that Dr Walsh may want to hurt himself?" Bullock asked, shifting his fat bottom in the chair as he tried to get comfortable.

"No, Harley shook her head slowly. "I never got the impression that Dr Walsh was suicidal. I would characterize him as self-confident and highly motivated."

"How would you characterize your relationship with Dr Walsh?" Li asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Professional," Harley replied easily, lacing her fingers together on her desk, preparing to tell her first lie. "We respected each other."

"Respected?" Li lifted a critical eyebrow. "In the past tense?"

"C'mon, Joe," Bullock grunted to his partner, shooting Li a warning look. "What Detective Li meant to ask was if Dr Walsh has been acting oddly or out of the ordinary lately. Have you noticed anything strange?"

"No," Harley replied honestly. "Obviously it has been a difficult time in the wake of the Joker's escape, but Walsh handled it well, and I had no reason to suspect anything was out of the ordinary with him."

"Some of the other staff say you stay late a lot of the time, Dr Quinzel," Li said, tipping his head back as he appraised Harley. "Most staff leave by seven or eight o'clock, but you're frequently here until ten or eleven. Why is that?"

"Joe..." Bullock warned.

"No, it's alright," Harley brushed Bullock off. "I run research studies in addition to my work with our patients, so my workload is often heavier than Dr Blakely or Dr Walsh, which means I regularly need to stay late."

"But you don't get paid more for that?" Li asked warily. "Does that upset you, Dr Quinzel? Not getting paid fairly?"

"Goddamnit, Joe!" Bullock snapped.

"That's fine," Harley said crisply, failing to keep the irritation out of her voice. "If my salary weren't adequate, or money was all I was concerned with, then I would work somewhere else. But that isn't the case, Detective Li."

Li sat back in his seat, looking chastised as Bullock continued to ask Harley standard questions that he would have asked the rest of the staff. She answered them all truthfully, aside from those about where Walsh might have gone and when she last saw him.

When they were done with the standard questions Harley started to stand so she could walk them out of her office, but Bullock shifted forward, planting his elbows on his thighs and clasping his hands together like there was a question burning on his tongue, and Harley lowered herself back into her chair, trying to radiate patience.

"You treated the Joker, didn't you Dr Quinzel?"

"Yes," Harley said stiffly, feeling her pulse pick up as she remembered the way the Joker had looked at her earlier that morning. "Not quite treated. I was interviewing him at Dr Walsh's request. We were considering writing a book about him."

"A book?" Li folded his arms over his chest. "What kinda book?"

"To help people understand him," she said, searching her memory for the false reasons she'd given herself at the time. Walsh wanted the book for the sake of his pocketbook and fame, Harley had only wanted to learn more about the Joker through their interviews. "The Joker scares people. We wanted to show them he's just a man."

"That fucker isn't a man," Li snarled. "He's a freak."

"Oh, I assure you," Harley's voice was cold, and her eyes had narrowed, and though she was focused on Li she could see Bullock raise an eyebrow at the change in her tone. "He is as much a man as you are. He only wants people to believe he's something more, and it sounds like he's convinced you as much."

"Sounds like you got what you were looking for," Bullock frowned, shifting his fat bottom again. "Like you understand him."

"No," Harley said softly, her thoughts turning back to that morning again. "I don't think I do."

After Bullock and Li left, Harley spent some time staring aimlessly at her computer, not seeing what was in front of her and certainly not getting anything done. Eventually, her body reminded her she hadn't eaten anything more than a few bites of fried rice in the previous twenty-four hours, and she forced herself to stand and change out of her lab coat and into Bruno's wife's garish blazer.

The Narrows lacked many culinary options, so Harley ended up at a fast-food joint down the street from Arkham, her mouth watering at the pictures of burgers glistening on the backlit screens over the registers. She ordered two double cheeseburgers, and after she'd wolfed both of them down, she went back for an extra-large milkshake. As she walked back to Arkham sipping her milkshake, she thought about what she'd done to Walsh, but she couldn't find the guilt she knew she should have felt.

It was mentally exhausting, picking apart her actions and motivations, dragging herself into a dark, sludgy place in her mind. So she made a deal with herself. She would do what she wanted, and not hold herself back under the guise of being  _normal_  as she had for so fucking long. She wouldn't tear herself apart trying to work the  _why_  of everything.

Trying to understand herself was harder than trying to understand the Joker. At least part of the  _why_  for him was that he did whatever the hell he wanted when he wanted to. But he knew what he wanted. Harley  _still_  wasn't sure.

What she did know about herself was what she had always known. She was strong, and she was a survivor, and if she believed in herself, she could do anything. Even if she didn't understand her behavior, and even if she was going through a crisis, those things would always be true.

The afternoon was spent doing preliminary interviews with candidates for the new Elliot trials. Four of them had been delivered to Arkham after the Joker used them to distract the MCU. Harley resisted asking them about the Joker, how he had approached them and coerced them into wearing clown masks, what he had promised them or offered them or threatened them with to bend them to his will.

By the time the board meeting rolled around Harley was on the verge of claiming she needed to go home sick, but she endured, filing into the board room after Blakely and taking her seat at the table, Walsh's lack of presence among them palatably obvious. He may have been a shitty leader, but he was the asylum's director, and the board seemed to think that without him, they were rudderless.

"We've come up with a solution," Jeremiah Arkham's relative informed them once they'd gotten past the business of expressing their distress over Walsh's missing person status. "We will have an acting director take over Dr Walsh's responsibilities until this is... resolved."

Harley glanced sideways at Blakely, wondering if, for the first time in four cycles of Arkham Directors, he would be offered the job.

"Joan Leland from Gotham University has agreed to help us in the interim."

Harley's eyebrows lifted, but she was too tired to react as adequately as she might usually have. As Harley's mentor, she and Joan had been very close, Joan providing almost parental guidance throughout her PhD.

Joan had also introduced Harley to Jonathan Crane, one of her most exceptional students.

And Joan knew Harley  _very_  well.

"Joan is an excellent choice," Blakely announced, looking the most relieved Harley had ever seen him. He even smiled a little, his heavily lined face showing none of the signs of envy or betrayal that he had, yet again, been passed over for the directorship.

"She'll be here tomorrow before lunchtime," Maire Kane said, looking at Harley. "If you three could catch up amongst yourselves on how best to proceed in Dr Walsh's absence, we think that would be best."

"Of course," Harley said, but her voice wavered, and she couldn't stop herself from imagining Joan looking into her eyes and seeing exactly what she'd done.

They were about to close the meeting when Walsh stood up, drawing an envelope from his lab coat pocket and pushing it across the table toward the collected board members.

"What's this?" Arkham's distant relation asked, ripping into the envelope.

"My resignation letter," Blakely said, sounding tired.

The board erupted into indignant protestations and high-minded reprimands that Blakely would leave Arkham after so long when it was in its most urgent time of need.

But Blakely wasn't leaving for personal gain or a pay rise. He was just tired and ready to retire after a career at Arkham, watching the always-troubled institution go from bad to worse.

"I'm 75, and I have grandchildren I never see," he told them calmly, unpersuaded. "I should have done this years ago."

"Joan and I can handle it," Harley interjected, receiving a grateful look from Blakely. She had always liked him, and he had always been kind to her, and even if she was half-lying to the board, it was the right thing to say given the current circumstances. "I'm sure Joan will have some ideas about how to replace Neville."

When they closed the meeting, Blakely immediately fled the room to avoid getting cornered by any of the board, but Harley wasn't as lucky. Marie Kane was waiting for her in the hallway, nervously twisting a diamond the size of a walnut around her left ring finger.

"Oh, Dr Quinzel," she called, and Harley dutifully presented herself with a stiff smile even as her left eyelid threatened to droop. "How are you, dear?"

"As well as can be, all things considered," Harley replied wearily, allowing Marie to pat her on the shoulder in what she supposed was meant to be a show of comfort.

"It was all so dreadful," Marie said, her synthetically smooth forehead struggling to form a frown. "Ivania Dumas is still recovering. She won't be able to return to the new season of  _Made in the Diamond District_ , poor lamb."

It was only then that Harley realized Marie was talking about the gala and not Walsh's disappearance. She had almost forgotten that she'd been kidnapped along with a few key members of Gotham's trust fund brigade, who were apparently still 'recovering' from the trauma of that evening.

Meanwhile, Harley had... switched sides? Was that what she had done by not turning the Joker in when she'd had the chance?

No. She was on her own side, not the Joker's and not Marie's or Gordon's or Penguin's either.

"And my cousin Jacob, God," Marie gushed, clutching her pearls. "He's drinking more than usual. At least it seems the Joker has disappeared for now. Oh... Dr Quinzel, do you think he might not come back? You know him best, after all. Could he possibly be gone for good?"

Harley suddenly had a picture in her mind that she could see clear as day: Marie rushing home to her palatial townhouse to tell the members of their elite club of the wealthy and the powerful that the Joker's doctor had reassured her that he was gone for good.

"Unlikely," Harley said coldly, watching as Marie's lips tightened nervously, tiny fissures around her mouth showing.

Once she'd managed to shake Marie, Harley headed for the break room, hoping to find Blakely or maybe get some cake from Rosa. Instead, she was confronted with another twist in the plot that had become her life.

Rosa was on her cell phone with her back to Harley, humming comfortingly in Spanish to someone. Harley could about make out ' _Sweetheart'_  and _'Oh God'_  from the little Spanish she knew, and by the time she'd finished pouring herself a cup of coffee Rosa had tucked her phone in the pocket of her scrubs, shaking her head sadly.

"Everything okay?" Harley asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"My daughter," Rosa continued to shake her head like she was stuck on a loop. "She cleans houses. This morning one of the girls who works for the same agency found a  _murder_  scene at one of the houses she cleans. In Otisburg of all places."

" _Shit_ ," Harley said before she could stop herself. She was suddenly imagining the GCPD scouring the Casamento's house for clues which couldn't mean anything good for Harley.

"My daughter, she can't believe it," Rosa sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "But this is Gotham. The most terrible things are possible here, and you can never be surprised by them."

After accepting a piece of chocolate cake and attempting to comfort Rosa as best she could, Harley's shift was officially over. She was too tired to even contemplate staying late to get her work done. Fuck that. Instead, she rode the metro home, nodding off as she swayed with the motion of the carriage, then dragged herself through the square to her building and up the front steps. As per usual, the doorman didn't acknowledge her as she headed for the bank of elevators, and she leaned against the wall to hold herself up as she rode to her floor.

When she opened the door to her apartment, she was instantly hit with the overwhelming smell of rotten garbage, but it didn't deter her from staggering over the threshold and into her room, not bothering to turn on any lights. The closer she got to her bed, the more exhausted her body became, and even though the smell in her apartment was disgustingly potent, it couldn't compete with her need for sleep.

Harley fell face first onto her bed and was unconscious shortly thereafter.

* * *

Bruce hung back in the slaughterhouse's rafters, waiting for the right moment to make his presence known. Below him, beat cops were rolling out police tape and passing around latex gloves, completing standard administrative tasks that often led to crime scene tampering, at least in Gotham. Bruce watched with a critical eye as the cops moved in and out of the old freezer unit where Murphy Walsh's corpse had been found, knowing it was unhelpful to resent Gordon's men, or even expect them to prove they weren't corrupt and incompetent.

Two months ago, Bruce would not have hesitated to insert himself into a crime scene, especially if it was one as essential as this. It was a Joker murder according to the intelligence the MCU had conveyed to beat cops in the area, and even if the Joker was lying low, his current status as armed and dangerous couldn't be ignored just because he wasn't actively terrorizing the city.

It was possible that Murphy Walsh was the beginning of a new reign of terror, the first sign of what was to come, and Bruce had been waiting  _weeks_  for a sign.

Alfred said Bruce spent too much time thinking about the Joker, but it was worse than that. Alfred didn't know how often Bruce laid awake at night - or day - trying to understand the motivations and whims of the dangerous psychopath who had murdered Rachel and twisted Harvey's mind.

There was a method in the Jokers madness, and Bruce had come to believe that insanity wasn't part of the equation. When you got close enough, as Bruce had, and saw past the makeup and the scars to the ruthless nihilist beneath, it was obvious how intentional and controlled every move the Joker made was.

The museum, the staged attacks, the MCU break-in. They were all dress rehearsals for a larger show. One that might have finally started that night with Murphy Walsh's torture and death. And Bruce needed to know why.

Gordon finally arrived, flanked by a pair of detectives Bruce recognized as Bullock and Li. As Gordon bowed under the police tape, Bruce lowered himself down from the rafters, landing silently and staying in the shadows until he could get Gordon's attention. It was harder to communicate now that the Batman was a wanted murderer, but Gordon would know that Bruce would be there waiting for him, and he would be looking for his signal.

Pulling on latex gloves, Gordon turned toward the dark space Bruce occupied, his forehead creasing as he squinted, looking for movement. Bruce nodded, a subtle gesture that would have been impossible to see unless you were looking for it like Gordon was.

"Alright, boys," Gordon announced to the group of cops. "Let's give Li and Bullock some space to check this out. Wait outside."

When the last beat cop had filed out, Bruce stepped out of the shadows, and Detective Li immediately pulled his weapon while Bullock floundered.

"Lower your weapon, Detective Li," Gordon commanded.

"But, sir!" Li protested.

"I said lower your weapon," Gordon repeated, sounding agitated. "We need him on this one."

Li slowly tucked his firearm away, glaring at Bruce with a ferocity only a good cop desiring justice could muster. Good.

"A junkie found him here and called the tip line," Gordon explained. "He said he was hoping for a handout, but we're holding him until we know for sure he wasn't working under the Joker's orders."

Bruce peered down at Walsh's body on the floor of the freezer, the rigor mortis in his limbs suggesting he'd been dead for at least a day, maybe almost two. His pockets had been pulled out, and his shirtsleeves on his left arm pushed aside where the addicts had stolen his watch and whatever else they could get their hands on. His skin had turned blue from the cold, his unseeing eyes frosted over.

It was barbaric.

The beam of Gordon's flashlight danced over Walsh's face, catching something yellow and glinting that drew Bruce's eye. He moved in closer, using his own light to study the substance around Walsh's nose and mouth, and realized it was coagulated fear toxin. They would have had to pump an obscene amount of it into Walsh's body for it to expel out of him this way, first driving him insane before killing him soon after.

But there was something more in the syrupy liquid that had thickened over Walsh's upper lip like a layer of fat. There was a fingerprint.

Bruce pressed a catch on his belt to release a scanner the size of a credit card - one of the tools Lucius Fox had reluctantly shared with him of late. Lucius didn't like the lengths Bruce was willing to go to, but he cared about him too much not to share technology that could help.

"See something?" Gordon asked, shining his flashlight on Walsh's face.

"A fingerprint," Bruce rumbled, passing the scanner's infrared light back and forth over the perfect mark. The scanner beeped when it stored the image and Bruce stepped away from the body to face Gordon again. He glanced at Bullock and Li warily before speaking. "Have you attributed anything else to him?"

"Nothing concrete," Gordon replied stiffly, the strain of the day showing on his face. "We had a double homicide in Otisburg this morning. Santo Cassamento's wife and a mid-level enforcer type. Forensics say there was blood splatter on the wall that indicates a third body had been present, probably Cassamento. He hasn't been seen since yesterday. There's been a backlog the lab so we won't get the DNA or fingerprints from the scene back until tomorrow."

Bruce nodded slowly, trying to tie a murdered mob boss in North Gotham to Director Walsh's torture on the Eastside. "Any sign of the fear toxin there?"

"No, just a feeling," Gordon said, running his hand over his jaw. "Plenty of prints and DNA to go around."

"He likes to use first-timers," Bruce grunted. "They're easier to convert to his cause."

Gordon's eyebrows jumped in surprise.

"Harleen Quinzel's psychological profile," Bruce elaborated, knowing Gordon wouldn't ask him how he got his hands on such sensitive documents.

"Right," Gordon nodded, understanding what was not being said, his gaze shifting back to Walsh's corpse. "Let me know if you find anything - we won't be able to get the prints off this for at least another twenty-four hours."

But Bruce didn't reply; he had already sunk back into the shadows.

* * *

The sun was rising when the Joker ducked out onto a narrow fire escape, which rattled reluctantly under his weight. He squeezed his hand into the front pocket the jeans he'd been wearing for nearly twenty-four hours to retrieve a disposable lighter and lit the hastily rolled cigarette dangling from his lips, then fell back against the brick wall. Nicotine flooded his brain as he took a long drag, then sighed out a plume of smoke before quickly taking another.

He'd been smoking more than usual all night, a symptom of the nervous energy racing through him ever since he'd grabbed sixteen solid hours of sleep on Bruno's couch. After that, it had all been talking and observing and meeting and waiting and  _more_  talking - no warpaint or suit required - all of which made him even antsier. The waiting game was a necessary evil for  _events forthcoming_ , but that didn't make it any less boring, and it  _definitely_  didn't make him any less prone to allowing a certain distraction to creep into his thoughts, requiring a healthy dose of nicotine to keep it at bay.

The Joker let his head lol back against the wall, smoke drifting out of his nostrils like a dragon as he looked out at the oranges and pinks backlighting the crooked buildings of the Narrows, his mind drifting as he prodded his bottom lip with his tongue.

She'd been lingering in the back of his mind ever since she'd made her hasty escape from Bruno's kitchen. The  _softness_  of her mouth refused to leave him, just like the way she'd looked at him after stuck with him too. Wide-eyed and  _sweet_  and totally at odds with the ruthlessly efficient person he'd watched murder an innocent woman only hours earlier.

He hadn't seen that coming, and he still couldn't decide how to feel about it any of it. Not her beguiling  _sweetness_  or her ice-cold _ferocity_. Dwelling on a woman was unusual for the Joker, dwelling on  _feelings_  was even more out of character.

He took another long drag off his cigarette, attempting to shake off the unfamiliar, distracting uneasiness curling in his gut.

" _Fuck_ ," he muttered roughly, raking his hair off his forehead.

* * *

When Harley woke up, the sun had already risen, which meant she was late for her shift at Arkham. Her phone had died during the night, so her alarm hadn't gone off, but a quick look at one of the burner phones on her bedside table informed her she was already an hour late for work. She groaned and used her hands to push herself to her knees so she could take stock of her situation.

She'd slept for over twelve hours but could easily sleep for twelve more. She'd slept in her clothes - a recent habit, it seemed - and her mouth felt fuzzy. She couldn't remember the last time she'd brushed her teeth... it must have been days...

The smell of rotting garbage had grown stronger overnight, sweeter and almost salty, like nothing she'd ever smelled before. It might have roiled her stomach if she hadn't skipped dinner.

She clambered off the bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she wandered barefoot into the bathroom. A shower and fresh clothes would help her function at a level that wouldn't draw suspicion from Joan Leland. It would make her even later, but Joan was the only person Harley was worried about at Arkham now.

But when she passed into the bathroom, she stopped short at the scene greeting her there, her eyes widening.

There was a person in her bathtub. A  _dead_  person, so technically a  _body_  in her bathtub was more accurate.

His throat had been slit from ear to ear.

Harley felt her bottom lip quiver as she stood staring at the body, too surprised to do anything more.

There was a dead body in her apartment.

She darted back into her bedroom and snatched the Beretta and burner phones off her bedside table, shoving them into her handbag as she stepped back into Mrs Bruno's low heels, and then she fled her apartment.

* * *

**A/N: Did you guys forget about that dead body? :D**

**Bullock is based off the Gotham version of the character.**

**Next: In the last chapter of Part 1, the evidence starts to mount up against Harley as Gordon and Bruce put the pieces together.**


	11. Chapter 11

The Harlequin

11.

* * *

Once safely enclosed in the elevator, Harley fumbled through her satchel, searching for the Joker's burner phone. Her fingers scraped over her gun and the twenty-thousand dollars cash she had stashed there - the contents of her bag an excellent example of the shit she'd gotten herself into - before she found the phone.

She started typing out a text, her trembling hands making it an almost impossible task, and she only got as far as  _'WHY'_  by the time the elevator dinged, and its doors slid open. With her shoulders hunched around her ears, Harley speed-walked out of her building and into the square. Then she stopped there, taking a moment there to argue with herself over the right course of action.

Shouting at the Joker seemed like the best choice, so she brought up the only number stored in the phone and stabbed her thumb down on the green call button, trying to imagine what the Joker answering the phone to her would sound like. But the line just rang and rang as she stomped toward the metro, too frazzled to notice the strange looks she received from a couple walking their dog. When it became apparent that the ringing wasn't going to stop, she canceled the call and tried again, swiping her metrocard and positioning herself at the far end of the platform to wait for the train.

She paced in a small circle as the phone continued to ring endlessly, and when the train arrived, she cursed and hopped onto the empty carriage, reluctantly conceding to herself that it was a lost cause.

With one arm braced against the carriage, she swayed with the motion of the train she typed out the message she'd initially intended to send.

_Why the fuck is there a body in my bathtub!_

But it was evident by the time she arrived at Elizabeth Arkham station that she wouldn't be allowed to take out her ire on the Joker via phone - if ever - and she was reminded that she had a bigger problem on her hands. She would worry about the body later; now, it was time to worry about Joan Leland.

"Harleen?" Blakely was waiting for her at the entrance, his thin eyebrows raised high in surprise. "You weren't answering your phone."

"It's dead," she said flippantly, trying to move past him so she could get to her office and pull herself together.

"Are you okay?" Blakely persisted, following her down the corridor before - very uncharacteristically - grabbing her elbow to stop her.

Harley looked down at the wrinkled hand on her arm, and then up at Blakely's face. Her eyes narrowed, and Blakely recoiled from her, alarmed.

"You look like you've been dragged through a hedge backward," he said, sounding concerned. "Did you sleep in your clothes?"

"I'm fine," Harley claimed, knowing she was only making her situation worse. "I'm having... problems with a man I've been seeing."

It wasn't, strictly speaking, a lie.

"You're seeing someone?" Blakely replied incredulously, and the sheer disbelief in his voice made Harley stutter indignantly.

"I don't share every detail of my personal life with you, Neville!" She bristled, only just managing to keep her voice down.

"I realize that, but you've never - actually, it doesn't matter," Blakely shook his head, sounding exasperated. "Harleen, you couldn't have picked a worse time for your personal life to start affecting your work life. Joan will be here in an hour."

"Thank you, Neville," Harley hissed sarcastically. "I am aware that Joan is on her way."

Blakely just sighed and retrieved a small black comb from his shirt pocket. "Comb your hair and put your lab coat on. That might help."

Harley took the comb, feeling more guilty for snapping at Blakely than she did for any of the terrible things she'd done. She felt her face crumple as the unfamiliar sensation of tearfulness smacked her behind the eyes.

"Thank you, Neville," she said, her voice sounding watery and weird, and before she could stop herself, she'd thrown her arms around Blakely, pinning his arms to his side in a forced hug. When she pulled away, Blakely's weathered face looked strained with concern.

"I think you should stop seeing this boy," he told her, with more authority than she'd heard from him before. Probably words he'd espoused many times to daughters and granddaughters, and in this instance, absurdly relevant. "Now, go clean yourself up."

Harley kept her head down until she was sequestered in the bathroom closest to her office, groaning at what she saw in the mirror. Her hair was tangled and her suit impossibly wrinkled. Her face was nearly white with bruise-like circles beneath her tired eyes. The memory of the body in her bathtub resurfaced, but she quickly batted it away; the seriousness of Joan realizing there was something off with Harley was the more immediate problem.

As her PhD advisor, Joan had treated Harley with more compassion than she'd ever experienced as a child in foster care, and it had tied her to Joan in a way that Harley occasionally resented her for. She'd always assumed the resentment was some mangled form of jealousy that came from being a lonely kid without parents to guide her, only to find those missing things as an adult when she shouldn't have needed guidance. Now that resentment was flaring up again, but this time with a tinge of fear in the mix. Harley had never been caught drinking beer as a teenager, but she had a feeling it was something close to this.

Except what she had done was a whole hell of a lot worse than underage drinking.

She told herself she was projecting, that she was just nervous someone would find out about her nocturnal activities of late, and Joan, with her stern parental tendencies, made a good avatar for that elusive someone.

_You are being paranoid,_  Harley assured herself as she splashed cold water on her face and combed out the knots in her hair. Joan can't see into your soul, no more than anyone else can. No one will know so long as you act normal.

_Just act normal._

But Harley had come to loathe the idea of 'normal.'

And she wasn't as adept at pretending it as she used to be.

* * *

Bruce sipped one of the green protein shakes stored in the fridge at the box park as he waited for the fingerprint he'd taken off Walsh to check out against the GCPD's database. Alfred insisted he didn't look after himself, so the green protein shakes were Bruce's concession to the matter of self-care. They tasted like what he imagined a licking a toad might taste like.

It was early afternoon, and Bruce had already checked the print he took from Walsh against the GCPD database twice, not finding a match either time. Gordon had said there was a backlog at the lab, and Bruce couldn't help feeling a stirring of resentment that he had to work against the GCPD's gross incompetence.

He was in the process of texting Lucius for help when a text message from Gordon arrived. It was a picture of a fingerprint, and beneath it, Gordon had written, ' _EA3F - female, unknown print, taken off the knife used to kill Katarina Cassamento.'_

Bruce's forehead creased into a frown as he emailed the image to himself and loaded it onto the system. Five seconds later, the software matched the print from the slaughterhouse to the print from the Otisburg scene, and Bruce quickly let Gordon know they were a match.

Although they didn't agree on it then and there, Bruce knew Gordon would expect him at the MCU later that night to discuss the evidence and theories it presented. It was dangerous for them to continue to meet and communicate now that the Batman was wanted for murder, but it was necessary. An electronic paper trail was more hazardous for Gordon than the Batman getting sighted on the roof of the MCU.

A female had taken part in - or at least been present at - the torture and murder of Murphy Walsh. The next night, that same female had murdered Katarina Cassamento, and her presence there meant the Joker had been behind those murders too. It was difficult not to dive into the question of why the Joker had killed a mob boss, but that was for another time. Right now, Bruce needed to follow the evidence, and their first and only clue pointed toward this mysterious female accomplice.

Bruce had never seen a woman with the Joker before, only young or middle-aged men. There were very few powerful women in Gotham's underworld, and even fewer in lower supporting roles as enforcers or dealers. Most women involved with the mob were prostitutes or mistresses, and though it was difficult to give the Joker credit for anything, employing a woman was right out of his playbook.

_I'm just ahead of the curve._

The only woman Bruce knew for sure to have even been in the same room as the Joker was Harleen Quinzel, first at Arkham and then at the Crowne gala when the Joker had used her as a hostage to aid his escape.

Bruce remembered all too clearly how Harleen had looked that night. The dark red of her lips as she smirked and sneered at him, her skin almost white against the champagne silk of her dress, her blonde hair unstyled over one shoulder like she couldn't have cared less about being there. She had been painfully beautiful to look at and completely unphased by it, so unlike the other beautiful women in the room who clung to their beauty and its effect on men.

Rachel had been like that too, unphased by her own beauty, which might have explained why Bruce found it so attractive on Harleen.

The Joker's goons kidnapped two other people that night, but Harleen had been the only one without family at the party. The only outsider who wouldn't be missed. It didn't seem strange at the time because she had so looked the part, and the Joker knew her from Arkham. It made sense that he would choose Harleen to be his human shield.

But Harleen had also spent countless hours alone with the Joker at Arkham. Doing nothing but talking, just the two of them.

Bruce felt a lump grow in his throat as he pictured Harvey at the building site the night he died, claiming life wasn't fair, driven to the edge of sanity because of an idea planted by the Joker, and magnified by his grief over Rachel's death. The Joker had twisted the good man Bruce knew into darkness. He manipulated him into a man willing to kill children for revenge where before there had only been light and hope.

And Bruce could see it suddenly with deadly clarity, a story where the Joker might have planted an idea in Harleen Quinzel's mind. An idea that could have taken root as it had done with Harvey.

He got to his feet, no longer able to sit still. It was a tenuous link, all circumstantial without hard evidence, but it would be possible to get a fingerprint from Harleen to confirm one way or the other. Then it occurred to Bruce that he might have something that was at least a starting point, if not the proof he needed.

The bag he had hidden his tux and shoes in the night of the gala was still leaning against the wall, and Bruce almost reluctantly retrieved his rumpled suit jacket from the bag to scan it for prints. The idea that Harleen Quinzel could have been...  _corrupted_  by the Joker made him feel sick. Not just for her sake, but because it brought back the pain he'd seen in Harvey's eyes tenfold. It reminded him of Rachel.

If he looked into Harleen's eyes and saw that same pain there, he wasn't sure he could stop himself from killing the Joker.

The computer beeped, signaling it had finished comparing the prints. There were over twenty sets on the jacket.

One of those sets matched their mysterious female.

* * *

Harley felt numb as she rode the metro home. It had been a stressful and draining afternoon, and knowing what she had to deal with at her apartment made her feel more depressed than she could remember feeling in a long time.

Joan had arrived at Arkham just before lunchtime, perfectly on time as she always was, and of course, she laughed when she found a small parade waiting to greet her in reception. At Rosa's insistence, Harley had been lined up alongside Blakely, Annie and Hassan, the new Head of Security, all of them smiling strained smiles as Joan stepped through the front entrance.

She greeted them with the same grace and kindness Harley had always admired and tried to emulate, up until recently. When Joan saw Harley, she beamed and hugged her as if she hadn't seen her in years. It had been about a month and a half, just after the Joker was admitted, but it really did feel like years to Harley. Joan was expecting that version of Harley now, so she forced on her most patient smile - which she had learned from Joan - and hugged her back.

Joan was nearly Blakely's age, but she looked at least a decade younger, with only a handful of crow's feet at the corners of her eyes suggesting she was aging gracefully. She still kept her hair in a bob - the same bob she'd worn for years and years - and she still wore the same smart, pastel suits and wire-framed glasses that she had been wearing since Harley met her in her third year of undergrad.

Blakely made introductions before awkwardly showing Joan to her office. Harley knew Joan better, but Blakely had known her longer, so he took on the task of host while Harley retreated to her office to stare at a spreadsheet of information that her brain refused to understand.

Joan tracked her down sometime later, bringing cups of tea - always tea over coffee - and her gentle smile as she took a seat in front of Harley's desk.

"I can't believe I haven't come to see you at Arkham yet, Harleen," she smiled, sipping her tea. "How are you? I feel like I haven't seen you in ages."

"September," Harley corrected, plastering on the patient smile again, which Joan returned. It was Joan's patient smile, and it came naturally to her. Harley always had to force it, and she felt resentment swell up in her again.

"You look tired," Joan said, not unkindly. "Tell me about what you're working on."

So Harley struggled through an hour of pretending everything was fine, and her work at Arkham was swell, and Elliot Pharmaceutical was doing some breakthrough things. Of course, Joan didn't ask her about the Joker, just like she'd avoided asking about him when Harley last saw her. That would have been tacky, and unlike most people, Joan wouldn't have been interested in him anyway. Joan thought the Joker wasn't worth their valuable intellectual energy. That was the whole point of him, wasn't it? To distract people from important, meaningful things with his nihilistic anarchy.

When Joan finally left her alone, Harley sat with her head in her hands for a long while, losing track of time as she mulled over the question of what she was supposed to do with herself. Nevermind about the body in her apartment - what about Harley? What was she going to do?

It grew dark outside, and Harley was treated to a call from Commissioner Gordon, her stomach churning with anxiety throughout the duration of their conversation.

"Dr Quinzel, I'm sorry I have to tell you this over the phone but... Dr Walsh, we've found him." Gordon spoke with sincerity that must have come naturally after years of telling people their friends or family members had been murdered. Maybe it was genuine, or maybe he gave the same line every time. Was it possible to be so genuinely sorry so many times for so long? Or would he have grown numb to it at some point?

"Does his wife know?" Harley asked softly, slouching down in her chair and twisting from side to side in an attempt to soothe herself.

"Yes, but we're trying to keep it from the media, for now, so we think it's best if your colleagues aren't made aware yet. I hope you can understand, Arkham has a problem with..."

"Leaks," Harley filled in bitterly. Not anymore, they didn't.

"Yeah," Gordon sighed. "There've been a handful of attacks that don't make sense. We believe they're related to the Joker. Do you think you could come down to the station tomorrow to take a look at what we've got?"

Harley agreed woodenly, and Gordon said something about the MCU's consulting fee and how she could invoice them later in the month.

"Of course," she agreed. "Thank you, Commissioner."

Her shift hadn't quite finished, but Harley was sick of her office, and she had the whole body-in-the-bathtub situation to figure out, so she left early, picking up a bottle of wine from the bodega before getting on the train.

How the hell was she supposed to consult on attacks that she had been present for? It was a minefield, ten times harder than trying to get through an hour with Joan pretending everything was 'okay.' She had one foot in two completely different worlds, and trying to find the middle ground between them was impossible. Instead, she was being split down the middle, and it was exhausting.

Harley climbed off the train when it reached her station, nowhere near solving her current or future problems. She could only hope the world would offer her a solution she couldn't refuse, and soon.

* * *

Gotham City Hospital was small but easy to get lost in. Gordon had been wandering the halls, not fully paying attention to where he was going while he was on the phone with Dr Quinzel. It wasn't a very nice thing to tell her about her boss and then to ask her not to let the people she worked with know about it, but if the details of Walsh's murder got to the media, the reaction would no doubt trigger something else, possibly something worse. The Joker thrived off the attention, so they weren't going to give it to him. It wasn't a good plan, but it was the best Gordon could come up with for the time being.

A nurse pointed him toward a recovery ward where he would find the newly-conscious Detective Stephens. Almost three weeks in a coma but sounding like his usual grumpy self when Gordon spoke to him on the phone earlier in the day. It was that kind of unyielding dedication to the job that Gordon needed to have around in times like this. Sneaking pictures of fingerprints and secretly communicating with the Batman made Gordon feel lost. Even when he knew he was doing the right thing - by covering for Harvey and asking the Batman for help when he could simply go no further with the resources at his disposal - his sense of what it meant to be Gotham's Police Commissioner was fading.

He was outside the door to Stephens' room when he got another text from the Batman.

_EA3F matches Walsh print._

_Harleen Quinzel. A hunch._

Gordon frowned, not sure what to make of the message. It was dangerous to communicate with him this way. If Gordon's phone fell into the wrong hands, he would lose his job for sure, if not worse. The Batman had killed Harvey Dent as far as the world was concerned, and if it meant giving up his post to protect that lie, Gordon would swallow his pride and do it. But he didn't just need to protect Gotham from the specter of Harvey Dent. He had to protect it from the Joker too, and these matching female prints were the first lead they'd had yet.

But what the hell did Harleen Quinzel have to do with any of this? She was female, and she had been the Joker's psychologist, but it was a weak link. The Batman must have had more to go off of if he was suggesting she was somehow involved in Walsh's death, and suddenly Gordon wished he'd told her about Walsh in person so he could have gauged her reaction. Still, it was hard to imagine Harleen Quinzel being involved in something so heinous. She was so... calm and professional.

Then again, Gordon could never have imagined Harvey Dent holding a gun to his son's head.

"Oh, here he comes," Stephens groused from his bed as Gordon stepped into his hospital room. "Finally making time for your fallen comrade, huh Jim?"

"Hi Bill," Gordon greeted him with a faint smile. They shook hands, and Gordon pulled a chair up to Stephens' bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Well rested," Stephens joked gruffly, and they both chuckled.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Gordon probed. "Did you see the device they used to set off the gas?"

Stephens blew out a breath through his teeth. "Naw, I didn't see it," he shook his head. "The last thing I remember is bringing Harleen Quinzel into your office to debrief her. Then we both noticed something was wrong and -"

"Wait," Gordon stopped him, one of those rare but cherished shivers of understanding rolling up his spine. "Harleen Quinzel was at the station that day?"

"Yeah," Stephens said carefully. "Why did she not..."

"Harleen Quinzel from Arkham was at the station? You're sure?"

"Jim, what the fuck is going on?" Stephens demanded. "I've said it already. She was there."

Gordon sat back in his chair, running a hand over his face. She had decided to omit that she had been there that day. She had lied to him.

What else had she lied about?

Ignoring Stephens' bewildered demands, Gordon sent a final message to the Batman.

* * *

Harley stood over the body in her bathtub, a glass of wine in one hand and Penguin's burner phone in the other. She was staring at the layers of tissue and fat exposed where the dead man's throat was cut open, and there was only one word for it. Butchery.

When she opened her front door, she had gagged and stumbled back out into the hallway, slamming the door shut to get away from the overpowering stench of death. It took her ten minutes to work up the courage to open the door again, holding her breath as she quickly ran around the apartment, opening every window. The smell of rotting garbage - which was actually the smell of a corpse decaying - was ten times more intense than it'd been when she left that morning, sweeter and more potent. But she forced herself to breathe it in and move past the nausea. There was no other choice.

Harley wanted answers almost as badly as she wanted the body out of her apartment, but she had accepted that she wouldn't get either of those things from the Joker. That left her with only one option: calling in her favor with Penguin. He would be able to tell her what to do or, hopefully, send people to take care of the body while Harley stood on the sidelines.

Would she need to tip any men he sent? It was an absurd thing to worry about, but absurd had recently become the norm for Harley.

She'd composed a humble text to Penguin requesting a favor, preparing herself to send it when a shrill ring echoed down the hallway.

Harley pocketed Penguin's phone and edged out into the hallway, frowning when she realized the ringing was coming from her bag instead of her coat.

Oh, he had good timing. She had to give him that.

She dug the Joker's phone out of the bottom of her bag, glaring at the glowing blue screen as it vibrated urgently in her hand. She closed her eyes to center herself, then held the phone up to her ear.

"Oh,  _hey,"_  she snapped, unsurprised by the soft chuckle on the other end of the line.

_"Heyyyy,"_  he drawled, and even over the phone, Harley could picture his face. His eyes rolling up to the ceiling innocently, his mouth twisting evilly.  _Asshole._  "Listen, I've uh, got some  _news._ "

"You've got some  _news?"_  Harley scoffed. "I've got a dead person in my bathtub!"

He chuckled again, and Harley knew him well enough by now to know that throaty, quiet laugh was saved for  _genuine_  amusement. She was gearing up for the rant she'd been working on all day, the distance between them making it easier to blame him for more than the body, to pin every anxiety and fear she had on him, and she wasn't about to hold back.

"Oh...  _that._ Well uh... put that aside for now," the Joker said quickly. "You're in a bit of a pickle, Harl."

"A  _pickle?"_  Harley demanded incredulously. "What the fuck does that mean!"

"Like I said," he sighed melodramatically, as if she was the one being unreasonable. "I have some  _news._  A little  _bird_ told me that you've got a uh...  _fingerprint_  problem."

Harley could feel the blood drain from her face. She'd never known exactly what the phrase meant before, but she felt it then.

"What?" She croaked, knowing instinctively that a fingerprint problem was a  _police_  problem. She hadn't spared a thought for things like fingerprints or DNA - why would she? The other people present at Walsh's murder hadn't given a damn about their fingerprints being found. But they were criminals already wanted by the police. Harley was a police consultant, a doctor at Arkham. She had a life, which meant her fingerprints could not be found on a knife at a crime scene — especially not a knife sticking out of a dead woman's chest.

And she hadn't even bothered to  _try_  to cover her tracks.

"Yeah,  _that_ kind of problem," the Joker said, his voice lower and far more serious. He wasn't joking anymore. "So, you've probably got about... ah, ten minutes before he kicks your front door down."

Harley swallowed a lump that had formed in her throat, her eyes drawn back to the dead body. "Who?" She asked weakly.

There was a stretch of silence before he growled, " _You_  know."

Harley knew.

"Where the hell am I supposed to go?" She demanded, her voice shaking as panic started to zip through her.

"Wherever you want," he replied dreamily. "Harley, the  _world_  is your oyster."

"I swear to God," Harley hissed, and something snapped inside her. Her mouth was moving without her permission, threatening him with untold violence.

"Alright, alright,  _alright,"_  he interrupted, sounding bored. "There's a bar called Grin and Bare It in the Cauldron. Go there."

Then he hung up, and Harley was left holding the phone against her ear with no one to shout at. She fell back against the bathroom door, her legs feeling weak as she tried to wrap her head around what she'd just learned. For the first time since everything had started, Harley was terrified, the fear of imprisoned far more potent to her than the threat of imminent death. All it took was one look at this body in her bathtub and her fingerprints at two crime scenes, and her life would be over. If the Joker was right, that was exactly what was about to happen.

She resisted at first, thinking maybe if she stayed where she was and waited for the police to arrive she could talk her way out of it. He manipulated me like he did Harvey Dent. The Batman and Gordon might believe that. They might pity her, and she could get tried for manslaughter instead of homicide. Or she could claim Stockholm Syndrome - that might persuade a jury.

The burner buzzed in her hand as a text came through. It was an address in the Cauldron neighborhood on the Eastside.

The Joker was giving her a way out, exactly what she'd be waiting for all day and dreaming about for far longer than that.

She snatched her bag off the ground and shoved her feet into a pair of low heels, then sprinted out of her apartment and down the hall to the stairwell. The sound of her heels on the concrete echoed around her as she raced down six flights of stairs, ignoring the burn in her legs until she was out in the lobby. She stopped there, her eyes darting around nervously as she forced herself to walk slowly through the lobby and down the front steps. Once outside, she ran flat out across the square and onto the main road.

Two cabs ignored her as they passed by, but a third stopped, and when Harley gave the driver the address, he groaned.

"Come on, lady. I ain't goin' to the Cauldron after dark."

Harley fished through her bag and pulled three bills from Cassamento's envelope of cash. She held them up, meeting the driver's eye in the rearview mirror.

"Take me there," she snapped, shoving the cash through the partition and taking the cabbie's greedy eyes as acquiescence. "And keep it to yourself."

* * *

It took too long to get to Harleen's apartment, but he would still get there before Gordon's men, and that was what mattered right now. Bruce wanted to look in her eye and understand what had happened before he judged her. She wouldn't escape the consequences of what she'd done, but if he could understand how she'd been persuaded to lie and kill, then perhaps he could learn something about the Joker. She could have information that would lead him to the Joker that night - this could all be over before morning if they worked fast enough.

Bruce navigated the Batpod over the manicured lawn surrounding Harleen Quinzel's apartment building, the wheels spitting up dirt and grass behind him. He stopped short beside the tower and craned his head back to look up at the window he knew was hers. He had been here before and watched her look distressed as she walked home, and now he felt foolish not to have looked into it further.

Harleen's windows were wide open, and the lights were on, suggesting she was home. This could be easy if she let it be. They could talk and wait for Gordon to show up. Bruce unbuckled the grappling hook from his belt and aimed for her window. The cable shot up like a snake in the night, hooking onto the window ledge, and a second later, Bruce was zipping up the side of the building, the cable tightening as he approached the window.

He checked the apartment before entering, a cursory glance to make sure she was alone, and it was then that Bruce realized for the first time that Harleen Quinzel was not at all what she seemed.

The couch in her living room had been carved open, its stuffing spilling out of a trash bag laying beside the remains of a shattered television. There were trash bags all over the living room, full of clothes and debris. The apartment was littered with signs of chaos, of a woman disturbed, but most pervasive of all was the smell. Something was rotting in Harleen's apartment.

Bruce slowly stepped through the mess in the living room and down the hallway, all of it lit up like she was home though the silence told him otherwise. She must have made a quick escape, but it could have been hours or minutes ago. He peered into the bathroom and inhaled sharply through his nose at what he saw there. There was a dead man with his throat slit in the bathtub. A man who worked for Cosa Nostra if the cut of his suit and the gold watch at his wrist was any indication.

There was frantic knocking on her front door then, followed by Gordon's voice shouting.

"Dr Quinzel! It's Commissioner Gordon. Please open the door..."

Bruce needed to leave before they broke the door down. She was gone, and there was no point in sticking around at a crime scene he would be unwelcome at. He quickly scanned her toothbrush for prints before leaving the way he came in, and as he repelled down the side of the building, he could hear wood splintering as the police broke down Harleen Quinzel's front door.

* * *

The first thing Harley figured out about the Cauldron was that it was the same part of town as the weird Irish pub she'd been taken to after the gas attack at the MCU. Tall buildings were crammed between short buildings and strip malls, the result of construction from different decades, and all of it crumbling. Most of the shop fronts were abandoned, the glass shattered or covered in steel bars to keep looters and squatters out.

The cabbie was obviously nervous as he pulled off the main boulevard and down a side street, and Harley peered out the window to examine the shops they were passing. It was grim and filthy, with rail-thin women posing on almost every corner, selling their bodies.

Harley felt trepidation slide up her spine. Why was she being sent here? She considered backing out of this half-cocked plan that, stupidly, included relying on the Joker for guidance on how to avoid getting arrested. She could just get a motel or get the hell out of Gotham completely. She had twenty-thousand dollars cash and a gun, and that was enough to tide her over for a few months at least. But what then? She was a behavioral psychologist, not exactly well-prepared for a life on the run. And besides all of that, she wanted a chance to scream in the Joker's face to let him know exactly how she'd been feeling the last few exhausting days. It wasn't a rational or even a smart choice - the last time she'd said 'no' he'd put a gun to her head - but it was the one she was making, and she refused to be too scared to be pissed off.

Finally, the cab stopped in front of a perfectly square red brick building on the corner of a narrow street, a neon sign declaring it Grin and Bare It in blinking pink script, the image of a woman swinging around a pole flashing in neon beside it.

"Shit," Harley hissed under her breath, feeling completely unprepared for what she was about to get herself into. Was this really her best option? Apparently so. She forced herself to climb out of the cab anyway, unsurprised when the cabbie took off as soon as her feet hit the pavement.

Harley pulled her coat tighter around her torso, her complaints about not being able to shower or change her clothes now the farthest thing from her mind as she warily approached the club's entrance, which was being manned by a stocky bouncer wearing a cheap sport coat.

"Alright there, love?" He greeted her with a lascivious smirk.

Harley steadfastly ignored him, hurrying through the entrance with her shoulders hunched around her ears as nervous energy skated through her belly.

Inside, the club stank of sweat and cigarettes, permeating the kind of sleaze Harley would typically actively avoid. A long stage snaked around the room, lined with barstools for men to slump drunkenly in as they watched half-naked girls dance apathetically to 'Roxanne,' which was playing through cheap, tinny speakers. Harley snorted derisively, suspecting the irony of the song was likely lost on everyone but her.

She was growing increasingly aware that some of the men had turned away from the dancers to stare at her, their bloodshot eyes drifting over the strange figure she presented in Mrs Bruno's suit and heels. Knowing she couldn't just stand there glaring at the patrons, Harley headed for the bar running the length of the club's back wall. There was a middle-aged man with bright red hair covered by a flat cap behind the bar, cleaning a glass as he spoke to a huge man with his back to her.

When Harley was a few feet away, she realized she recognized that large man, and an odd cocktail of hope mixed with rage flared up inside her as she stormed up to the bar and grabbed him by the shoulder.

Bruno spun around remarkably quickly for a man his size, his hand already pulling a gun from his jacket when he realized it was Harley. He visibly relaxed and fixed her with a look that might have qualified as exasperated.

"Harley, what the hell are ya doing here, huh?" He frowned, tucking his gun back in its holster and brushing the front of his jacket down to cover it.

"Where is he?" Harley huffed, moving closer. She could feel the bartender watching and shifted her glare to him until he turned his attention back down at the glass he was cleaning.

"He's busy," Bruno replied evasively. "What're you doin' here?"

Harley detected a note of  _'what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this'_ and resented Bruno for it. It implied she was better than the half-naked girls when in reality, Harley was a murderer who only a day and a half earlier had been kissing the Joker in a mobster's kitchen. That made her the worst of all people.

"He told me to come here," she complained, having to shout over the chorus of 'Roxanne.' "He said the Batman was going to kick down my front door. I need to see him  _now_ , Bruno."

Bruno's eyebrows shot up into his forehead, his heavy face stretching in surprise, and Harley had to wonder if he was reacting to the part about the Joker telling her to come or the Batman kicking down her door.

"I told ya, he's busy," Bruno said carefully. "Why don't you have a drink, huh? You're all wound up."

"No shit I'm wound up!" Harley snarled as Bruno ordered her a beer.

Instead of replying, Bruno gestured to the bartender. "Harley, this is Marty. Marty, Harley."

Harley ignored Marty and the beer he set on the bar beside her. She grabbed Bruno by the lapels of his jacket, trying to force him down to her level and drawing more eyeballs from the club's patrons in the process.

"Where...  _is_ he..." Her hands were starting to shake, and she realized that she was probably overdoing it, that sticking with Bruno was good enough for now and she didn't really need to speak to the Joker. But she couldn't seem to stop herself. She wanted the Joker. "And if you say he's busy again, I _swear_  to God, Bruno, I will fucking..."

"Alright, Harley, calm down," Bruno said stiffly, taking her by the shoulders and gently pushing her away. He checked his watch, sighed, then looked up at the ceiling like he was sending up a prayer. "He's in the middle of a job, okay?" He said at length. "I'll take you to him after it's done."

"A job?" Harley's eyes widened. "So he's not here?"

"Christ," Bruno muttered, glancing at Marty who shrugged helplessly, and then back to Harley. "For the record, I'm telling you this ain't a good idea, but you threatened me. Okay?"

"Yes, fine," Harley sputtered as Bruno turned her around and nudged her back to the entrance. Having Bruno walking beside her was enough to make the men who'd been staring look away, and when they passed through the doors out onto the street, the bouncer in the sport coat nodded solemnly at Bruno. They were all terrified of him.

Bruno directed Harley up the street, passing a narrow gravel parking lot squished between the club and another dilapidated building, which turned out to be a grocery store called O'Riley's Green Grocers.

"He's in there?" Harley frowned at the storefront.

"Listen," Bruno folded his arms over his chest and fixed Harley with a pointed look. "I need ya to calm down, Harley. I promise I'll take you to him, alright? But you can't go in there acting crazy like this."

Harley started to protest that she wasn't crazy, but he held up a hand for her to be quiet.

"I know you're not crazy, Harley," he placated. "I said you're  _acting_  crazy. Ya can't go in there and scream at him in front of the boys. I don't recommend screaming at him in general, ya know, for your own safety, but I can see you're gonna do what you want. Just keep it together in front of the boys, okay?"

Harley nodded sullenly and followed Bruno into the store. A muscley, freckled man behind the counter acknowledged Bruno with a stiff nod as they passed through, and Harley focused on not letting her heels get stuck on the sticky linoleum floor instead of what was coming next. Thinking about next was a little too much for her at this juncture when she could only just cope with the moment in front of her.

There was a door at the back of the grocery store with an 'Employees Only' sign hanging off its hinges. Bruno pushed it open and gestured for Harley to go first. She ducked under his arm into a storage room lined with packing crates of food and cleaning supplies, not to mention about a dozen men in the process of loading guns and checking ammunition, evidently preparing for a fight. Harley recognized a handful of them; Sly, Dough Boy, and Bambi were there, as was Fogerty, the orderly who had helped the Joker escape, and Lichtenstein, who had escaped with the Joker.

And there  _he_  was in the middle of the group, fresh white warpaint stark against his black eyes, his hair stained a radioactive green. He was missing his waistcoat, gloves, and tie, and his violet suit looked rumpled and worn like he'd been wearing it for days on end. Harley suspected it didn't bother him to sleep in his clothes like it bothered her. He was impervious to mundane things like cleanliness and comfort.

When the Joker saw Harley, his eyes lit up, and his mouth widened into a sly smile that made her feel like she was about to be eaten.

"Oh... you're early," he sing-songed, taking a few slow steps toward her while Bruno pushed the door behind them shut, effective trapping Harley even if he didn't realize it. "Did ya like,  _run_  all the way here or somethin'?" the Joker smirked down at her, lifting one amused eyebrow.

Harley's eyes darted around the room nervously, trying to decide on the best course of action. She was still vibrating with anger, but now that she was here in front of him she felt herself demurring, not quite bold enough to take on the Joker when he was surrounded by his 'boys' and in his element.

"I got a cab," she informed him hostilely. "We need to talk."

" _Ohhhhh,_ right," he purred, stepping closer and making her feel like she was cowering in his shadow. "Well, listen, Harl, I'm just in the uh, middle of something here..."

"How about this, boss," a pale man with a thick Eastern European accent chuckled. "Your new friend dress like Grin's girl and sneak into Panessa's room for us. Make things much easier, no?"

The Joker glanced at Bruno, something silent passing between them, then Bruno turned and grabbed the pale man by the neck and slammed him into the closest wall. He pulled back one huge fist and punched the man hard in the face while the rest of the room watched in silence or looked elsewhere. Bruno hit him three times, his expression eerily calm like he wasn't exerting himself in the slightest. When he released the man and let him slide down the wall, he simply returned to his post beside Harley, straightening his cuffs.

_"So,"_  the Joker continued as if nothing had happened. "You wait here with Bruno. I'll be about, ohhhh, fifteen, twenty minutes." He brushed her hair over her shoulder absentmindedly, his knuckles grazing her neck, making Harley flinch. "Then we'll talk," he promised, his voice lowering as he met her eye.

Harley believed him, even if it irked her to acknowledge it. She didn't trust him as far as she could throw him, and whatever he was planning for this talk of theirs only made her more wary of him, but she believed him. She had questions, and she doubted she would get many answers, but he sounded genuine, which was strangely comforting in the chaos around her.

Two months earlier, she would have identified this as manipulation. Now she had no choice but to embrace it as she tried to keep her head above water.

"Fine," she said, her voice sounding strangled. She waved him off. " _Go."_

He chuckled low in his throat and held her gaze a moment longer before turning and swaggering back to the group of henchmen waiting for him. He announced they were leaving in a gruff voice and kicked open a back door, loping out into the night with his ragtag militia behind him.

Once the door was shut again, Harley lowered herself down onto a crate of beer and ran her hands through her hair, trying to pull herself together as Bruno reached for a high shelf over her head to retrieve a bottle of rye whiskey.

"Have a drink," he advised, handing her the whiskey as he sat on a packing crate across from her. "Settles the nerves better than cigarettes."

"Uh huh," Harley agreed reluctantly, uncapping the bottle and swallowing a mouthful of liquor. She cringed at the acrid taste on her tongue, but it helped center her, and she took another sip before screwing the cap back on and setting the bottle on the floor.

"You okay?" Bruno asked her cautiously, and Harley nodded evasively.

She most certainly wasn't okay, but she would have to pretend she was for her own sake. Falling apart wasn't going to do her any favors.

"So, they're going after Marco Panessa?" She asked at length, needing to fill the silence. "I guess he's next on the Penguin's list and-"

"Stop. Don't tell me", Bruno held up a hand to silence her, and when Harley's nose scrunched up in confusion, he elaborated grimly. "You and J were the only ones in that room with Penguin. No one but the three of you knows what was said or what deals were made. So, don't tell me or nobody else what's not their business."

Harley instantly had more questions. She'd assumed Bruno was some kind of trusted right-hand man, but he didn't know about the deal with Penguin. If the Joker hadn't told him, that meant Bruno and all the other thugs working for him were in the dark about _why_  they were killing mob bosses. Could they really trust him so much to believe there was a good enough reason without asking? Or were they just following him blindly, not caring if there was no purpose at all?

It was strange to think that Harley was the one who knew. Harley, who was practically helpless and completely out of her depth. Maybe because she was the one with the relationship with Penguin, which made her think maybe agreeing to kill this list of men had more to do with what the Joker wanted from Penguin than she'd originally thought.

The look on Bruno's face told her he'd reluctantly come to a similar conclusion.

"Do yourself a favor," he advised. "Don't ask too many questions. You know what you need to know. Call it delegating or compartmentalizing, or plausible deniability if ya like."

"Surely it's better if everyone knows what's going on," Harley argued. "Or at least if  _you_  know what's going on."

Bruno shook his head. "Listen, Harley. I've known him a long time, and there's a reason he ain't dead yet. The same reason I'm not dead yet. You follow the rules and don't ask too many questions, you'll stay alive too."

_Follow the rules_ , Harley thought bitterly. Of course, there were rules, it had been naive to think there wouldn't be, but that didn't mean she was willing to follow them. Harley was no sheep, and she wasn't about to submit to being told what she would and would not do. The worst part of the last few days had been the knowledge that she'd made those terrible choices for herself. The Joker's very existence had presented her with the opportunity, but she had been the one who decided not to tell Gordon about the pier. She had been the one to take the Joker to the Penguin. She had been the one to suggest torturing Walsh. She was the one who killed Katarina.

Harley scrubbed a hand over her eyes and resisted the urge to take another shot of whiskey. It would only make her fuzzy, and she needed to be alert.

Gunfire erupted above them then, the constant rattling of an automatic rifle punctuated by loud blasts from multiple shotguns. Harley looked up at the ceiling, trying to work out what was happening, and realized it was coming from the top floor of the next building over - the strip club - and she looked to Bruno for answers, her eyes widening.

"Marco Panessa has a penchant for women of the night," Bruno explained grimly when there was a break in the shooting. "Seemed smart to catch him with his pants down."

"That place is a  _brothel_?" Harley's lip curled in self-righteous disgust. "You looked pretty chummy with that bartender. Is he going to appreciate you guys shooting up his establishment while you hunt down his customers?"

"Marty's a fair guy," Bruno promised her, pausing to listen to a handful of quieter shots before the whole cacophony of shooting started up again.

"So you paid him to shoot up his club?" Harley lifted a judgy eyebrow, and when Bruno suggested she was asking too many questions, she scoffed derisively. "If a man named  _Bambi_  knows, I don't think it's the kind of secret the Joker cares about keeping from me." She had to raise her voice over the sound of shotguns popping in the near distance.

There was a long stretch of silence then, during which Harley and Bruno sat straining their ears. Harley could feel the tension in the little storage room pick up a notch, like Bruno was mentally preparing himself for something, but before she could ask there was an explosion above them.

The building shook, and Harley jumped to her feet with an undignified yelp as brick and mortar and metal pelted the outside wall of the grocery store. Then the back door flew open with a crash, and the Joker stomped in with Lichtenstein looming behind him. He was covered in soot, his warpaint smeared with sweat, and blood staining the front of his shirt. His eyes were steely, and his jaw clenched as he snatched up Harley's wrist, and she was too shell-shocked to do anything but hurry after him out the back door, dimly aware of Bruno behind them.

They jogged down the side of the building into the narrow gravel parking lot where a blue minivan and a taxi were parked among a handful of other cars. All of the mini van's doors were open, the engine revving as Bambi climbed into the passenger seat while Lichtenstein and Harley joined a pair of thugs in the back. Through the window, she could see the Joker and Bruno exchange quick words before Bruno jumped into the taxi and reversed smoothly out of the parking lot.

"Yo! Shut that fuckin' door!" Killer shouted from the driver's seat of the minivan. He was already backing up when the Joker hopped in and slammed the door shut. Then the van peeled out of the parking lot, taking off in the opposite direction of Bruno's taxi.

The backseats had been ripped out of the van, leaving nothing to hold on to, so Harley crouched down in a corner, trying to stay upright as the van rolled and swayed around a sharp turn. The others seemed to be faring better - maybe they were used to such erratic driving - but Harley's heart was pounding manically in her chest, not knowing what or who they were trying to run from making her nerves even worse.

The Joker had crouched down too, peering out the back window onto the darkened street as he reloaded the magazine on a lethal looking handgun that Harley expected had contributed to the constant rattle of bullets above the club. She tried to catch his eye, but he was consumed with checking the windows and barking orders to Killer as they sped down narrow side streets, clipping parked cars now and then.

After about ten minutes of holding on for dear life with her heart leaping in her throat, the van finally turned onto a wider boulevard and slowed down. Harley shifted to her knees and tried to look out the window, and when she saw they were edging out of the Cauldron and into Chinatown, she exhaled slowly, trying to calm her racing heart as the others settled into sitting positions on the floor, smirking at one another about a job well done.

The Joker, on the other hand, continued to bob up and down, scanning the passing streets like he was looking for something specific. Or  _waiting_  for something. And when a low, whirring sound began growing louder and louder behind them, he finally laughed that horrible, screeching laugh and jumped to his feet.

Feeling sick with anticipation and already knowing what she would see, Harley rose up on her knees to look out the back window. In the distance but closing in fast was a figure on a motorcycle, or something like a motorcycle. Its wheels were fat like a truck's, and peering over the front wheel was a masked face with two distinct points like a bat.

" _Shit,_ " she hissed hoarsely, her voice drowned out by the Joker's howling laughter.

The whirring grew louder as the Batman pulled up behind them, close enough that Harley could see the outline of him clearly. Then there was a sharp buzzing like a giant magnet charging followed by a spark of light, and Harley's eyes widened to saucers when she realized the Batman was going to  _shoot at them_. Killer yanked the wheel hard to the left, swerving out of the way just in time to miss a small rocket that exploded when it collided with the concrete, rocking the van.

Harley lost her balance and tumbled sideways, sprawling across the floor. She scrambled to find something to hold on to as the van swerved and bounced erratically, but just as she managed to right herself, the Joker pushed the van's sliding door open, exposing them.

Buildings were rushing past in a blur as the Batman pulled up alongside the van, and the Joker allowed him a second to peer inside before he started shooting. He held onto the roof with one hand, swaying with the movement of the van as he shot haphazardly into the night. Whether he was trying to shoot the Batman or not was unclear, bullets were ricocheting off the black suit of armor and ripping through his cape instead of hitting him in any significant way. Then the Batman abruptly dropped back, letting the van get ahead of him, and the Joker leaned dangerously far out of the swerving van, snarling as he craned his neck to see what was happening.

There was another short buzzing sound behind them, the same as before the last blast, and this time it struck the van's back wheel at an angle that sent it flying up in the air and sideways.

Harley felt like she was moving in slow motion, and for a split second, she even felt like she was floating with the van rotating around her. She caught the Joker's eye mere moments before he was thrown out of the open door, disappearing from her line of sight.

Things happened very quickly after that. Harley hit the ceiling, her teeth rattling as pain exploding across the right side of her face and down her body. The van landed upside down with a _CRUNCH,_  and she bounced like a rag doll from the ceiling to the floor to the ceiling again. The shock of the impact made her head spin and her ears ring as a rush of adrenaline coursed through her, making her feel like she was hovering above her body rather than inside it.

She blacked out for a few seconds then, or maybe a few minutes, and when she managed to swim back to consciousness, it was to the sound of rain thundering on the underside of the van. The click of a seatbelt drew her attention to the front seat, and she watched numbly as Bambi forced open the passenger door and crawled out onto the wet concrete.

In the distance, she heard the Joker's laugh, a grunt of exertion, a spatter of gunfire, and a roar of frustration. He was fighting the Batman, she realized, trying to push herself up to her hands and knees. There was shattered glass under her, cutting into her palms as she failed to push herself up twice, her limbs too rubbery to hold her weight and a ferocious pain searing through her chest and ribs so powerfully it almost blinded her. There was a groan beside her, and when she rolled her head to the side, she saw one of the thugs trying to army crawl across the van's ceiling to the open door. He was the only other one moving; Lichtenstein was lying face first in a pool of blood and the other thug was collapsed in the corner, his head cocked to the side at an unnatural angle, his eyes open but not seeing.

"Ah, fuck," she heard from the front seat. Killer was alive too, trying to get his seatbelt off.

The rain picked up to a torrential downpour, pounding the pavement all around them and echoing through the crushed remains of the van. Harley fell forward onto her elbows, moaning weakly as they ground into the glass under her weight. She knew she needed to get out of there. That it was critical that she push herself now more than ever, and with a little cry of exertion, she managed to get to her hands and knees to begin the slow crawl toward the open door.

A pair of legs clad in purple trousers appeared in the window of her destination, making her stop short in surprise. The Joker dropped down on one knee and crouched to look inside the wrecked van, his eyes landing on Harley first, lingering on her as she pushed herself to crawl a few more inches toward him. The paint was streaming down his neck, and his hair was plastered to his face, the green dye running down his shirt. Harley's eyes started to close in a prolonged blink, and she began to sway unsteadily, unconsciousness threatening to sweep her away again.

The sound of a gunshot far too close made her eyes fly open wide, just in time to see the Joker pivot to his left to shoot the thug who had been army crawling. Beyond his body, she could see the first bullet had been for Killer, who was still buckled in and upside down, a spray of blood dripping down the cracked windshield in front of him.

The Joker holstered his gun and met Harley's eye again, his expression grim as he thrust his arm into the van at her, offering her his hand. When she was unable to take it, he grabbed a fistful of her jacket instead, yanking her forward. Harley felt a sob catch in her chest as she was dragged out of the van and into the pouring rain, her ribs aching horribly and her head throbbing.

For a split second, she thought the Joker might pick her up and carry her when he hauled her to her knees, but that was obviously too much to ask. Instead, he manhandled her bag off her shoulder and let her collapse back onto the street where she lay panting in the rain. It helped clear her head, washing away the ringing in her ears and the sleepiness of a probable concussion, but it also brought the stinging pain in her chest to the forefront of her mind. She blinked hard to keep the rain out of her eyes as she tried to feel her ribs on the right side, yelping when her fingers brushed over them.

The Joker fumbled through her satchel until he found her iPhone, throwing it down on the concrete and stomping on it with his heel until it shattered. Once he was satisfied the phone was destroyed, he reached for her again, threading his arms under hers and forcing her to her feet. He looped one arm around her waist to hold her up as he palmed at her face, scraping her wet hair back and trying to get her attention by snapping her name. Harley's eyelashes fluttered against her cheek, the rain stinging her eyes as she tried to see him.

_"Walk,"_  he ordered, pulling her arm around his back.

Harley clung to him as she sucked in a shaky breath that made her ribs ache. She could feel the Joker leaning on her, and something about knowing he needed her gave her the energy to take a wobbly step forward.

Behind them, Harley could hear the Batman fighting Bambi over the relentless pounding rain, but she didn't look back. The Joker was pushing her forward, urging her out of the road, so Harley shook off the pain as best she could, forcing herself to move with him as they staggered away from the wreck of the van and down a darkened side street together.

* * *

_End Part 1_

**A/N: FINALLY! No More boring Arkham!**

**Next: Now a wanted woman, Harley is stuck with the Joker until she can figure out something better.**

****Next week is one of my favorites** ** ******:D** ** **

**Please review & thank you to everyone reading.**


	12. Chapter 12

The Harlequin

Part 2 - Power

12.

* * *

Harley's ribs burned every time she tried to take a breath, and now she could hear herself wheezing with each tiny, desperate gasp for oxygen. They had been staggering down side streets and alleyways in a torrential downpour for ten minutes, each step more difficult than the one before it. Apart from her ribs, she suspected she had a concussion, and her hands were scraped from the shattered glass, but otherwise, she'd been lucky compared to the others in the van. But right now Harley wasn't thinking about how lucky she was. Right now any attention not directed to her aches and pains was focused solely on the Joker leading her through Chinatown's narrow winding streets.

He was still propping her up, urging her forward as he checked around corners and snapped at her to shut up each time she started to ask where they were going. They kept going like that for another ten minutes or so, stopping and starting and hiding and moving forward through the pouring rain until at last, he stopped short outside a grimy-looking Chinese restaurant. Its windows were covered by menus and newspaper taped to the glass, obscuring whatever was inside, and directly to the right of the restaurant was a gated door. The Joker kept Harley propped up against him as he fished through his overcoat and produced a small brass key. The door creaked as it swung open and he half-shoved, half-carried Harley into the narrow hallway on the other side.

The gate clanged shut behind them, and they struggled up a steep set of stairs covered in threadbare blue carpet, both of them breathing raggedly by the time they reached the top. He used the same key to unlock a door without a name or number, and they stumbled over the threshold together, nearly dragging each other down onto the carpet.

It was a small studio apartment lit by a single bulb swinging above them, unfurnished aside from an old black leather sofa and ottoman which Harley immediately limped toward after she'd disentangled herself from the Joker. She lowered herself down slowly, breathing through her nose and trying not to think about the fact that she might have a chest full of broken ribs and couldn't go to a hospital. Her eyes closed as she slid down to find the least painful way to sit on the couch, her fingers gently probing the wet fabric of her blouse over the affected area.

She was soaking wet from head to toe, and now that she was sitting instead of limping around Chinatown, she could feel how drenched she was. It felt like her bones were wet, and her clothes started to feel uncomfortably heavy in the warm apartment. She shifted carefully to ease one arm out of her jacket before doing the same on the other side, her eyes on the Joker as he shrugged out of his overcoat and let it fall to the floor in a wet heap.

He shook his head like a dog, sending green-tinged drops of water flying everywhere, then toed off his shoes and peeled off his socks before loping across the apartment to a kitchenette. It seemed to be missing its stove and refrigerator, leaving only a few cupboards and a sink to qualify it as a kitchen. He scraped his wet hair off his forehead as he retrieved a half-empty bottle of bourbon from the cabinet above the sink, keeping his back to Harley as he rolled up his shirt sleeves then set about fiddling with something she couldn't see.

Harley kept her eyes on his back as she eased off her jacket and started on her blouse, unbuttoning it to the waist so she could pull it aside and get a look at her midriff. Angry maroon-colored bruises were already blooming up under the skin beneath her right breast, and she winced as she brushed her fingertips over the tender area, hoping it wasn't worse than bruised.

The Joker padded back over to her, a hastily rolled cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, the bottle of bourbon in his fist and a dirty glass pinched between his fingers as he squinted at her.

 _"Ouch_ ," he acknowledged drily, his eyes drifting over her torso clinically.

"How did he find us like that?" Harley croaked.

"Your  _phone_ ," he replied flatly, kicking the ottoman back and taking a seat on it, so he was facing her. He dropped the bottle and glass on the floor then produced a disposable lighter to light his cigarette.

"How the hell could he trace my phone?" Harley demanded, watched him exhale a plume of smoke and rake his hair off his face again. All of the warpaint had washed away, and most of the green dye from his hair was now on his shirt. If he weren't sporting a fresh bruise on his forehead and a busted lip, he would have been young and handsome. Being out of Arkham suited him. "The police can't even do that. They just get a radius."

"He's got all  _kinds_  of technical toys," the Joker drawled. He prodded his split lip with his tongue thoughtfully, then snapped up the bottle of bourbon by its neck and sloshed a few fingers into the dirty glass. After he swallowed a mouthful, he offered the glass to Harley, who wrinkled her nose. A drink felt like the very last thing she wanted

"It'll help," he said in that same flat, bored voice. " _Trust_  me."

Harley reluctantly accepted the glass and drained what was left of it, the sweetness rolling over her tongue making her stomach churn. He poured another and encouraged her to drink it, and this time, Harley noticed her body melting into the couch, the alcohol helping her relax and distract from the pain in her ribs.

"Why did you take me with you?" She asked warily, pulling her blouse together to cover her bra and midriff. She would usually have been more self-conscious about flashing her bra around, but this wasn't a normal situation. A major car accident, being chased by the Batman, bruised ribs. It all called for another drink to help her ease further into the confines of the couch.

"I  _think_  you mean... why did I tell you to come to  _Grin's_ ," he corrected her, his eyes rolling up to the ceiling as he took another long drag off his cigarette.

"Fine," Harley agreed sleepily. It was basically the same question  _\- why am I here with you right now -_  although the saving her life and pulling her from a car wreck seemed more meaningful, mostly because it required more effort than texting her an address. In his mind, they seemed to be the same thing.  _Effort_  had nothing to do with it.

He hunkered forward, the cigarette dangling from his first two fingers as he braced his elbows on his knees and peered up at her. Harley stared back at him uncertainly.

"Ya see... I got a _problem_ ," he said roughly, cocking his head to the side to gauge her reaction. " _You_  know a little more than you probably should... dontcha think?"

"I only know what you showed or told me," Harley replied gravely.

 _"Yeah_ ," he agreed shortly, pausing to smoke thoughtfully for a moment. "I still can't have you running to Gordon though... _can_  I?"

"If I go to Gordon, he'll arrest me," Harley said softly, watching him stub out the remains of his cigarette. She wondered how many he smoked a day and if he was trying to quit. She'd never seen him smoke before, but both times she'd kissed him there had been a lingering taste of tobacco on his tongue.  _Unhelpful thought,_  she told herself.

"Uh huh," he snatched up the bottle of bourbon again and poured a considerable measure into the glass they were sharing. "But they have these  _deals_ , you know? The DA says I'll let you have  _this_  if you tell me  _this_... see what I mean?"

Harley saw what he meant.

"So uh, until I figure out what to _do_  with you," he swallowed a mouthful of drink and offered the glass to her. "You're stickin' with me, kid."

"What the hell does that mean?" Harley demanded, though there wasn't much force behind her words. Her eyelids were drooping. "What are you going to  _do_  with me?"

"I  _guess..._  you'll just have to wait and see," he replied with a deceptive lightness she didn't trust for a second.

Harley huffed through her nose, letting her eyes close. She wondered if this made her his accomplice or his victim, but the truth was it didn't matter anymore, at least not legally. She could never go back to her apartment or Arkham. Life as she knew it was over, and she felt like she was falling endlessly through an unknown abyss.

However, she wasn't necessarily  _unhappy_  about it.

White spots began to form against the backs of her eyelids as she started to pass out again. She bit her lip and scratched her ribs, the sharp pain pulling her back from the brink of unconsciousness.

"Why was there a dead man in my bathtub?" She asked through gritted teeth. She had been unfathomably pissed about it an hour ago; now it seemed less important.

"Don't you mean  _thank you,"_  the Joker drawled, sitting back to cross one ankle over his knee. When his pant leg rode up, Harley could see an ugly bruise circling the ankle bone and spreading up the inside of his leg. She remembered he had been limping when they first left the crash, but he seemed to have mastered it as if walking around on a sprained ankle was something he could move past and get on with.

Harley didn't know if she was that strong.

" _Thank_  you?" She scoffed, her eyes still trained on his bruised ankle.

"Well,  _yeah,"_  he said lazily, looking pleased with himself. "I stopped a home _invasion_ , didn't I?"

Harley's eyes darted back to his and she squinted at him, trying to work out for herself why someone would invade her home.

Oh.

_Ohhh._

"Oh," she sighed, digging her fingers into her ribs again to keep herself awake. "He was the reason you knew Cassamento was sending people to take me to him."

The Joker shrugged, feigning modesty.

"That doesn't explain what  _you_  were doing in my apartment," she added sourly.

His eyes lit up. " _Background_ check," he informed her slyly.

Harley nodded, feeling sluggish. "Find anything interesting?"

 _"_ Nah," he sniffed, and Harley could feel him examining her as her eyelids started to flutter shut. "You're pretty  _boring,_  doc."

It was getting harder to stay awake, even prodding herself in the ribs wasn't working, so she got her last question out despite her eyes closing and her rubbery body melting into the couch.

"Did you get Panessa?" She could hear him stand up, and then the couch shook when he kicked the ottoman back into place.

"Yep," he said gruffly, flopping down beside her.

Harley opened her eyes long enough to watch him get comfortable, kicking his long, purple legs up on the ottoman, his bare feet dangling off the edge. He crossed his arms over his chest and shut his eyes, and their conversation was over. Harley could feel his body heat where their thighs were pressed together, and she considered moving away, but she didn't have the energy, and besides that, she didn't want to.

* * *

Gordon stomped up the stairs to the roof, feeling his heartbeat thumping hard in his neck. They just got back from the crash in Chinatown where the Batman had been spotted fleeing the scene. Four dead were found in a van turned on its side - two shot in the head, two from trauma - a smashed phone belonging to Harleen Quinzel found beside the wreck, and one man was in custody, refusing to speak.

Before that, Gordon had been at a strip club in the Cauldron. A horde of terrified, half-naked dancers - who Gordon suspected also worked as prostitutes in the rooms above the bar - made finding out what had happened nearly impossible. Multiple shots fired, an explosion that took out a wall on the top floor, and one woman dead. The Joker hadn't been spotted, but Harleen Quinzel had been seen minutes before the shooting started. Why Harleen - or the Joker - would shoot up a strip club was anyone's guess.

Before that, the bizarre crime scene that was Harleen Quinzel's apartment. They found a body decomposing in the bathtub, bullet holes in the wall, and a blood-stained dress in her trash. It was hard to say what happened there except that she was most certainly not as innocent as she seemed, and somehow, she was tied to the Joker. They were cataloging her prints and DNA now, and Gordon had no doubt they would be able to officially place her at both the Walsh and Cassamento murders.

He burst through the door to the roof, scanning the area and, as usual, missing the Batman in the shadows until he appeared of his own volition.

"What the hell happened!" Gordon snapped, knowing the emotion in his voice was giving him away. "She was in that van, wasn't she? They both were?"

"I didn't see her," the Batman rumbled, his jaw set. "But he was so... probably."

 _"Probably?"_  Gordon ran a hand through his hair, his nerves fraying. "So she's out there now. With _him."_

"He twisted her mind, just like Harvey," the Batman said hesitantly. "They spent hours together alone. He could have been manipulating her the entire time, formed a relationship with her. Convinced her to things she wouldn't normally do."

"Harvey was grieving his fiancee's death when the Joker manipulated him!" Gordon snapped, thinking the Batman was being unusually naive. "Have you met Harleen Quinzel? She isn't the sort of person who can easily be manipulated.  _She_  manipulated  _me!_ "

The Batman hesitated before speaking again. "Harvey would never have done what he did without the Joker."

"It doesn't matter," Gordon shook his head. "She's responsible for her actions, just like Harvey was."

Silence stretched between them, a fundamental disagreement they had not yet discussed lingering between them.

"You've met her," Gordon insisted, breaking the quiet. "What did you think?"

"This can't get to the media," the Batman said gruffly, not answering Gordon's question. "If people find out the Joker turned his psychologist into a murderer... it gives him power."

"The only official thing in her file is that she's missing and the details of her apartment," Gordon said slowly, choosing not to challenge the point about Harleen being 'turned' into anything. Regardless of the truth of that statement, her crimes gave the Joker power they couldn't afford to give him. "Until we can run her prints, she's just a missing person."

"Keep it that way for as long as you can," the Batman pleaded, and Gordon wished he was still a smoker. The secrecy and guessing games were almost worse than the Joker outright terrorizing the city.

"What did you think of her?" He asked, more calmly, and the Batman's mouth tightened as he considered the question.

"That she was fearless," he conceded gruffly. "Fearless like him."

* * *

The apartment's windows were covered with cardboard, so when Harley drifted back to consciousness, the room was still dark aside from the dim bulb hanging from the ceiling. She had slumped sideways while she'd been sleeping, her cheek against the Joker's chest, his chin resting on top of her head. At some point he'd looped his arm over her shoulders, holding her against his side.

Her body hurt all over, and her face ached where she'd smacked the ceiling of the van, but nothing hurt quite so bad as her chest and ribs. Each breath sent sharp, stabbing pains shooting down her side, and even shifting to get more comfortable had her gritting her teeth.

She could feel the Joker move beneath her, and despite knowing it would hurt like a sonofabitch, she twisted around to look up at him. His eyes were open, staring straight ahead like he was in a trance, but she knew by now this was what he looked like when he was deep in thought. He had a greater capacity for depth of thought than anyone she'd ever met, and it seemed somehow  _natural_  that he would block out everything around him in favor of scrolling through his own thoughts, which he generally preferred to everything else anyway.

Harley watched him quietly, and her attention seemed to draw him out of whatever he was working through in his head. His eyes darted down to meet hers, a hint of irritation lurking in his face. His bottom lip had split and swollen up where he'd taken a punch the night before, and Harley found herself become uncharacteristically tongue-tied as she studied the crack in his lip. Then, without meaning to, she reached up to touch it, her fingertips drifting lightly over the split skin. He flinched hard, and she felt it radiate down his body, making her lift her eyes to his, trying to read the blankness on his face. But he was like a sphinx, staring her down coldly,  _studying_  her, and Harley found herself wondering if he might kiss her again.

Instead, he shoved her away and pushed himself up off the couch, ignoring Harley's pained yelp when she landed on her side. She pinched her lips together to stop any further exclamations of agony as she watched him pad toward the bathroom and slam the door behind him.

"Fuck," she muttered, holding her ribs as she slowly lowered herself down to stretch out as best as she could. The throbbing along her right side was rhythmic and constant, and she squeezed her eyes shut, hoping unconsciousness would save her from it.

While Harley dozed on the couch, trying to take advantage of the ability to lay horizontally while she could, she could hear him banging around, leaving the bathroom, shuffling through the apartment, slamming the door again then turning on the shower which kicked the boiler off.

It was easy not to think too much about anything important aside from her aching body and her desire for sleep. There was virtually no chance he would A) Leave her there to rest and recuperate, or B) Take her somewhere else she could sleep and recover. He had either sprained or badly twisted his ankle fighting with the Batman, and from the look of the bruise on his forehead, he might have had a concussion too. But he wasn't going to let any of that slow him down. He was a machine, always pushing himself forward.

Harley had never considered herself weak before. Years of training her body in gymnastics had made her strong and fast and flexible, and most importantly, able to push herself physically to the brink.

Pushing through bruised ribs and a concussion was just one more thing to overcome.

Like an extra tough work out at the gym. That's how she had to look at it.

She sat up and ran her hands through her hair. It had dried into a wavy mess, so she tried to tease the knots out with her fingertips as she took stock of her clothes. Her pants were in poor shape, the knees torn from crawling through broken glass, and her blouse was nearly in tatters, the collar partially ripped off. Everything was stained with flecks of dried blood and dirt and grease. She still didn't feel one hundred percent dry, but at least her clothes seemed to be. Beside her on the couch was her jacket, which was in decent shape aside from the fact that the left sleeve was hanging by a few threads.

The bathroom door slammed open, and the Joker meandered out with a burner phone pressed to his ear. He'd changed into a black tee shirt and jeans again, though Harley noted these did not have a hole in the knee. Did that mean he'd had clothes stashed there? Was this a safe house of some kind? He was raking his hand through his wet hair, muttering unhappily to whomever he was on the phone with as he wandered over to one of the windows covered in cardboard.

When he started peeling part of the cardboard away, a thin stream of sunshine crossed the room and Harley used the opportunity to sneak into the bathroom with her coat clutched under her arm.

It was a narrow, bare-bones bathroom occupied by a plastic shower stall and a toilet missing a seat. There was a medicine cabinet over the sink which Harley checked for pain killers but came up empty. When she shut the cabinet, she cringed at the sight of her face in the glass. There was a cut over her eyebrow that was scabbing over, the area around it a faintly yellow color, but worse than that was the dark red bruising beneath her eye where blood from the capillaries in her forehead had burst and dripped down to collect in a pool.

Not quite a black eye, but much uglier.

She turned on the shower, only using the cold tap. Numbing her body seemed to be the best course of action, so she stripped off her tattered suit and stepped beneath the cold spray. It hurt at first, literally hurt her bones and made her heart pound hard in her forehead, but she forced herself to stay the course, and eventually, her body welcomed the freezing water.

Her mind circled back to waking up with the Joker's arm around her, and how she'd expected him to kiss her simply because their faces were close and he'd done it once before. He'd perfected the art of closing his expression off and on at his convenience. Hours of watching his face for clues at Arkham had given her some insight, but it was still only what he _allowed_  her to see, not some grand intuition only Harley had access to.

Still, she didn't know what he wanted from her yet, or why he'd helped her escape the Batman. The night before he'd said he was keeping her with him because she knew too much, but that seemed like half the truth at best. If that was all, he could easily kill her and be done with it. There had to be another reason, and Harley was relatively sure it wasn't just that he was a fan of her charming company.

She climbed out of the shower and used a threadbare towel to dry herself before pulling her dirty clothes back on. When she opened the door, the Joker was waiting for her on the other side. He'd added a black hoodie zipped up to his throat and a straight black jacket that fell to mid-thigh. He'd also thrown on a dark pair of Ray Bans, giving him a degree of anonymity Harley hadn't thought possible. And most arresting of all, he'd tied his hair back in what Harley was pretty sure counted as a man bun.

With just a change of clothes and a hair tie, he'd morphed from the Joker into a hipster with a hangover, someone people might not look at twice if not for the scars marring his face. It made Harley wonder if there was a duplicitous reason behind every item of clothing he'd ever chosen to wear. An endless rotation of costume changes.

He shifted the duffle bag he was hauling over his shoulder, his head bobbing up and down as he looked her over.

" _That's_  subtle," he commented drily, making Harley roll her eyes. He held up an orange prescription pill bottle between his thumb and forefinger and shook it in her face, a single pill rattling around inside. "Found ya something."

Harley took the bottle from him suspiciously, inspecting the label to find it was Vicodin and looked back up at him in grateful surprise.

His lips stretched up to the side in half a smirk, like he knew she was thinking how very out of character for him to make a _gesture_  like that. Harley uncapped the bottle and swallowed the pill dry. At least she would get some relief once the effects of the shower wore off.

"We got errands to run," he informed her sharply and shoved the heels she'd been wearing the day before into her hands.

Harley fumbled her shoes, one heel falling with a dull thump on the carpet. She paused to collect herself, then dropped the other shoe beside it, wincing as she nudged her toes into them. Walking in heels after being in a massive car accident wasn't exactly a delightful experience, but Harley persevered, following the Joker out of the apartment and down the stairs, pausing with him as he locked both doors.

Outside on the street, the afternoon sun was so bright it was nearly blinding after the dark apartment. Once the Joker finished locking the door, he took her hand - not her wrist, but her hand - and led her across the street so casually Harley felt like she was getting whiplash from how quickly he changed personas to suit his needs.

There was a dusty silver Toyota parked halfway on the sidewalk opposite the Chinese restaurant, and as they approached it, the Joker retrieved a keyless remote from his pocket. Once she heard the locks click Harley circled to the passenger side and slipped in, relieved not to be out in the open anymore. She pulled on her seatbelt and started searching the visor and then the glove compartment, and eventually found cheap pair of mirrored aviators. They were ridiculous, but she shoved them on anyway, more concerned with covering her bruised eye, which would draw much more attention than a pair of silly sunglasses.

She turned to see what was taking the Joker so long to start the car and was slightly startled to see he was using a small knife to pry open the steering column.

"I thought you had a key," Harley frowned, watching him fish through a bundle of wires after he'd managed to get the column out of the way.

He chuckled low in his throat but didn't answer, his attention focused on finding the right wires, slicing through them, and tapping their mates together until the engine rattled to life. It didn't seem likely that she'd get an answer, so Harley opted to settle back into her seat and stare out the window as he pulled into the street. The pain pill was kicking in, and it was a relief to not be in constant agony.

They sat in silence as the Joker navigated the car through the winding, narrow streets of Chinatown, past brightly-colored restaurants and tea shops decorated with paper lanterns. He seemed a fraction less paranoid than the last time Harley had been in a car with him, but he still drove cautiously so as not to draw attention. The anonymity of sunglasses almost had the effect of making him seem carefree, but then again, it wasn't like he let little things like being the most wanted man in Gotham get to him.

When they turned onto the boulevard where the van had crashed, Harley thumbed on the radio, curious about what the world thought was going on.

_"Today we're talking about the Dent Act, which is up for debate in the City Assembly in a few hours. Caller, tell us your thoughts."_

_"Yeah, hi,"_ a polished but irritated voice came over the stereo. " _Listen, what Harvey Dent was trying to do before he died was incredibly noble, but turning Gotham into a police state is not going to make things better. It's not the mob the Mayor needs to be worrying about right now - it's the Joker."_

 _"Most people are worried the Dent Act goes too far, but you're saying it's superfluous with the Joker out there_ ," the host said passively. " _But surely, all the rules in the Dent Act that apply to organized crime would apply to him too?"_

 _"Ha! As if you can put him in the same category,"_  the caller scoffed. " _Listen, the mob is a bunch of fat old money launderers. The Joker is a terrorist who wants to destroy Gotham. There is no way law and order will take him down. He didn't even get charged before he broke out of Arkham because there's still no DA!"_

" _So what do you think the Mayor should do?"_

" _Call up the damn Batman, get him to take out the Joker. He was trying to do it before - if the GCPD used him as a mercenary instead of hunting him down maybe he'd be able to get the job done!"_

Harley saw the Joker's mouth twitch as he turned onto the freeway.

" _Thank you, caller. Now we have Beth, who also has some thoughts about the Joker,"_  the host announced. " _Beth, you're on the air."_

_"Hi, look, I'm really worried that the Joker is planning something big, okay? My kids are scared, and I don't see what the Mayor or the cops are doing about it."_

_"And what about the Dent Act?"_

_"Pass the damn Dent Act. I don't care! But they've gotta do something about the Joker_ ," the caller insisted. " _You can't even trust the cops these days. They're saying he kidnapped his shrink, but in the Gazette today Vicki Vale is saying he turned her evil._ "

 _"First of all, Vicki Vale's reporting has not been corroborated independently_ ," the host said briskly. " _Second, if the police are lying about Harleen Quinzel, would you really want them to have as much power as the Dent Act gives them?"_

There was a stretch of silence during which Beth must have been putting together the pieces before she sputtered: " _Hell no!"_

_"Thank you, caller. Now we have Steve from Gotham University. Steve, you're on the air."_

_"Hi, I want to talk about Vicki Vale too_ ," a much younger voice said. " _Her reporting is hardly ever independently corroborated, but she's also always right. All those Joker attacks at Arkham? She protects her sources so well people who won't talk to the Globe will talk to her."_

 _"So you think Harleen Quinzel isn't just missing? But she's what? Joined the Joker's gang_?"

 _"I have no idea why a woman with a career like hers would up and join the Joker, but I trust Vicki Vale's reporting,"_  Steve said.  _"And if the Mayor and the MCU are lying about her being missing when she's really a suspect in an investigation into the Joker, well hell, they definitely shouldn't be passing the Dent Act. That's just corrupt!"_

Harley thumbed off the radio, having heard enough from the outside world to satisfy her curiosity. She chanced a glance at the Joker. He was playing it cool while they loitered at a red light, drumming his fingers idly on the steering wheel without a hint of the smugness she would have expected. Getting that level of attention and gratification from talk radio would surely have him jumping for joy.

"Wow," she said flatly. "Gordon is just doing your job for you."

He rolled his head toward her, his sunglasses slipping down his nose so he could peer at her over the tops of the shades. "Whaddya mean by  _that_?"

Harley lifted an eyebrow. "That they're proving the institutions society relies on can't be trusted."

 _"Well,"_  he said modestly, turning his attention back to the road as the light changed. "It's  _true_."

"Did you know?" She asked. "Did you know they'd cover up the fact that I'm a suspect?"

"Uh... I _believe_  they were accusing you of joining my  _gang_  or... oh, turning  _evil,"_  he corrected her with a wry smirk. "But I can't say I'm  _surprised._  They think they know best, but they're just proving to everyone what  _we_  already know. It's futile..."

Harley turned to look out the window again, feeling a little depressed, and maybe a little subdued thanks to the Vicodin. As they took the exit for the University District, she resisted asking any of the many questions rattling around her mind. All she'd done was ask questions, and the thinly veiled answers she'd received hadn't given her peace of mind. The biggest question of all was what the fuck would happen next. After a life of planning and following through, climbing the ladder through university, grad school, a good internship, Arkham, now there was nothing in front of Harley to say, ' _that is next.'_

But then again, she would have faced the same problem even without the whole ' _turning evil'_  plot twist.

She thought about what he'd said.  _They think they know best, but they're just proving what we already know._

We?

They were driving along the edge of University Park, an acre of a green oasis in an otherwise shady part of town. The University itself was in relatively good condition, and the student housing around it safer than other parts of the city. But the north side of the campus bordered Downtown Gotham, which had yet to be gentrified or wiped clean of the corruption and crime the mob brought with it.

The Joker suddenly yanked the wheel hard to the right, sliding into a parking space along the edge of the park.

"I'm starving," he announced, untwining the two cables beneath the steering column to turn the engine off.

Harley watched him jump out of the car and stretch his arms over his head, feeling like it was infinitely wrong from him to go around in public when the sun was shining and get away with it. But there he was, facing that big green park full of students strolling to class with only a pair of sunglasses to keep his identity secret, leaving those youthful faces blissfully ignorant to the fact that there was a terrorist in their midst.

Harley clambered out of the car, deciding she was too hungry to hide while he pranced around in public, even if she was less sure that she could hide in plain sight as well as he did. Looking like the oddest couple of all time, they ventured across the park toward a coffee truck, the air crisp beneath the winter sun. Harley kept her hands in her pockets and her head down while the Joker swung his arms and snapped his fingers, clearly in a good mood which Harley ascribed to his twisted world view being verified on AM radio. It was impossible to deny that Gotham was reacting exactly as he predicted, even without him having to push levers or rig the game.

When it came to ordering, he left it up to Harley, his scars and extremely identifiable voice the only things holding him back from starting a philosophical conversation with the hipster operating the coffee truck. Harley ordered a couple of coffees and cherry danishes, then realizing how little she'd eaten in the past day she shyly requested two more.

"Big night out?" The barista grinned as he rang her up, and Harley could only smile thinly as she handed him a hundred dollar bill to pay for less than fifteen dollars worth of food.

They found a bench closer to the car where they could see most of the park, and sat in companionable silence as they ate. Harley felt like she only just had a grasp of the situation, and that was that they were killing time for some reason. She didn't know why they were in the University District, or why he wanted to sit in the park drinking coffee, or why Gordon wasn't announcing to the world that she had turned out to be a murderous bitch. There was more she didn't know, but for now, she could only bring herself to acknowledge those facts.

 _"So_ , how's it feel?" The Joker asked abruptly, draping his arm along the back of the bench, his long, lanky legs splayed out in front of him as he made himself comfortable. "You know, turning _evil_  and all."

"There's no such thing as evil," Harley said woodenly, watching a couple of students laughing and holding hands walk past. "We've discussed it at length."

"You mean during our...  _sessions._ " He peaked at her over the top of his sunglasses again, smirking. His eye had developed a nasty purple semi-circle below the ocular bone, and Harley had an impulse to poke him there. "You know me so well," he cooed, popping the lid off his coffee cup to drain what remained of the brew.

Harley realized this was the longest period of time she'd ever been alone with him, and that this was the first time he'd referenced their  _sessions_  together at Arkham since he escaped. They had spent hours alone together at Arkham, but the times she'd seen him since felt much more significant and real, even if there were always henchmen and minions lingering.

Maybe that was why he wanted to kill time drinking coffee in the park with her. To get some one-on-one time in.

"You didn't answer my question," he sing-songed, his attention on a group of kids wrapped up in scarves playing soccer nearby. "Being wanted by the  _law_. What's it like for someone so...  _upstanding_."

"Weird," Harley answered honestly. "Like I've jumped off a cliff and have no idea where I'm going to land or how long I'm going to fall for." She sighed. "I just hope I don't land on my ribs again."

That made him laugh, a short, sharp sound like a rubber band snapping.

"Is that a uh...  _metaphor?"_

Harley drank the rest of her coffee, deciding now was the time if there ever was one to state her position. She turned to face him, waiting until his attention was on her instead of the soccer game.

"It can be a metaphor for don't fuck me over," she suggested grimly. "If you want."

He laughed again and hopped lithely to his feet, offering her his hand.

"You have  _trust_  issues, Harley," he informed her, keeping his hand outstretched when she didn't take it. "You just need to  _live_  a little; that's all."

"Is _that_  a metaphor?" Harley asked warily, taking his hand as she rose to her feet.

"C'mon," he said slyly, pulling her in the direction of the car. "You look like _shit_."

Harley chuckled despite herself, allowing him to lead her back across the park. They stopped at the car to grab the duffle bag he'd thrown in the back and then headed for the more derelict buildings at the edge of what counted as Downtown Gotham. The first block of buildings off the park were sunny and well kept, but after a few blocks, it became evident that Downtown was the neighborhood where Gotham's most dangerous men spent their time.

They stopped in front of a tailor's shop squeezed between a closed down charity center and a hardware store that also looked permanently shut. The tailor's two bay windows were covered with bars and heavy curtains, but just over the top of the curtains, the heads of a handful of mannequins were visible. Definitely creepy.

The Joker shoved his sunglasses up on top of his head and pushed the shop's door open, its bell jingling merrily as they stepped inside. It wasn't a store, just a room covered in dusty velvet drapes with at least fifty mannequins, some of them dressed in moth-eaten suits from another era, the rest naked and staring off into space like they were waiting to be decorated. Harley pressed her lips together grimly as she looked around at the sea of vaguely human painted faces, and found it all incredibly unsettling.

"What the hell..." Harley muttered, as the Joker retook her hand and tugged her further into the store. She squeezed his hand. "This place is scary," she hissed.

"Oh,  _this_  is scary?" He turned around to smirk at her. "Your standards are  _fascinating_."

The drapes along the back wall parted suddenly, and a chubby old woman with rosy cheeks appeared. She looked at each of them in turn, her eyes narrowing suspiciously when they landed on Harley.

"Buongiorno," she greeted somberly, then gestured for them to follow her through the drapes, which led into a room that looked decidedly more like a tailor's shop. The walls were lined with bolts of dark fabric and a pair of dressmaker's dummies outfitted with half-completed jackets stood at attention. There was a backlit wooden dresser displaying shirts, ties and pocket squares, and a three-way mirror with a platform for the customer to stand on.

Harley's first thought was it was some secret mob tailor before she noticed the female mannequins on the left side of the room. Their arms were posed flightily, and they were dressed in a series of gowns, suits, and frocks that looked more vintage than custom made. Her eyes were drawn to a pair of flat leather boots leaning against the wall, and suddenly she didn't care where the hell they were so long as she got to leave wearing those boots instead of the broken heels she was currently working with.

An old man with a monocle hanging from his collar shuffled in from a back room, smiling thinly at Harley before he bowed his head to the Joker, who spun around to face Harley again.

"Stay  _here,"_  he ordered, but before she had a chance to express her displeasure with the situation, he'd turned back to the old man and loped after him into the back room.

Harley smoothed her hand over her hair, unsure what to do with herself. The old woman was shuffling around, tidying and ignoring her, which Harley was fine with. But when she bent down to get a look at the boots, the woman was suddenly all over her, scolding her in Italian and gesturing wildly.

"I don't understand," Harley insisted, as the woman plucked at her jacket where the sleeve was coming away and shook her head in disgust.

She shuffled away to stand beside a mannequin wearing a dress made of ruched silver fabric with a set of enormous shoulder pads, and waved her wrinkled hand enthusiastically at the dress and then to Harley.

"That?" Harley asked incredulously, understanding she was being shamed into buying something new to wear. "Don't you have anything more... subtle?"

All she got in response was a long string of Italian that seemed to add up to Harley being too difficult before the woman moved on to a different mannequin, this one was dressed in a garish yellow and magenta mini dress that looked like a relic of the 1960s.

"I don't think so," Harley said awkwardly, gesturing to indicate she wanted to cover herself, which made the woman scoff.

After a lot of back and forth and Harley squinting helplessly at the backroom the Joker had disappeared into, they found a black turtleneck dress that smelled like mothballs but felt luxuriously soft and warm against Harley's skin. The woman eventually let her have the flat leather boots too, though she made a huge fuss as Harley zipped them up to mid-thigh, just below where the dress ended.

The Joker reappeared in time to find Harley shrugging on a wine-colored coat while the old woman ranted at her. He had exchanged the duffle bag for a garment bag slung over his shoulder and looked grim-faced.

"Can we get out of here?" Harley pleaded, hastily shoving the contents of her nearly destroyed handbag into the many pockets of her new coat. But he had walked right past her, already ducking through the curtain so she had to hurry after him to not be left behind.

They'd only been in the store for about thirty minutes, but the winter sun was already setting by the time they were back out on the street. The pain pill was wearing off, and the effort of changing clothes made Harley aware of her body's less than stellar condition again as they walked back toward the park, and she could see the Joker's mood had shifted from the easy good humor of the afternoon into the business-like silence she knew meant he was thinking something over.

"Did I just meet your parents?" Harley joked weakly.

 _"Ha_ ," he said nasally, pulling on sunglasses once they were back out in the open along the edge of the park. "My  _tailor_."

"Your tailor. Of course," Harley said passively. She had questions - what did you talk to him about, where are we going, what are we doing, what is going to happen to me - but she could see from the set of his jaw that the friendly collusion part of the day was over and he was no longer in the mood to indulge her. So she tried a different approach. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

He either didn't hear her or ignored her completely, loping past the Toyota they'd stolen earlier while Harley struggled to keep up with him. He stopped a few cars away in front of a sleek gray Jaguar that looked utterly out of place in the University District. Harley watched him squat down beside the front wheel on the driver's side and retrieve a set of keys from the top of the tire. Before he'd even stood back up, he'd unlocked the car and was in the process of throwing the garment bag in the back seat.

When he realized Harley wasn't getting in, he squinted at her over the tops of his sunglasses like he'd forgotten why she was there, then ducked into the car without another word. Harley hesitated for a few seconds, listening to the engine purr to life, and after reviewing her options, she got in the car.

* * *

It turned out they needed the Jaguar to be inconspicuous in Midtown. The drive there was silent aside from one call the Joker made on a burner phone just after they pulled away from the park. Harley spent the trip deep in thought about her situation. She wasn't loving being dragged from one end of the city to the other without an explanation, but she also knew demanding answers was a non-starter. The Vicodin had started to wear off by then, leaving her ribs twinging but her head clear, and that was more important than her comfort.

Just as they pulled up to one of the skyscrapers in the shadow of Wayne Tower, Penguin's burner beeped in Harley's pocket. She turned her attention to finding the phone in her new coat as they drove into a lower level parking garage, and when she saw the message from Penguin, she couldn't stop a small chuckle, guessing he had received Marco Panessa's body.

_Please tell your friend to stop leaving the bodies at the club! We are not a disposal service! :(_

The parking garage was full of cars that were equally if not more ostentatious than the Jaguar. Harley counted no less than five sports cars in a variety of radioactive colors. They parked in a more secluded, private corner out of sight of the other cars, and when Harley climbed out, she discovered they'd parked beside a solitary elevator, its frame dark mahogany inlaid with gold leaf. But it was taking more and more to surprise her, so when the Joker pulled out a key card and used it to unlock the elevator, she stepped inside after him without blinking.

"We couldn't come here last night?" Harley asked, mostly to herself since it seemed he'd finished speaking to her. She looked around the inside of the elevator as it shot upwards. "Private elevator to... I'm guessing the penthouse?"

" _Honeymoon_  Suite," he corrected roughly, not looking at her.

The elevator dinged when it reached the top floor, and after another swipe of the key card and a four-digit code on a keypad, the doors opened into a small marble foyer which was empty aside from a broken Greek sculpture on its side and a stack of grease-stained pizza boxes. The Joker loped out of the elevator with his shoulders hunched up around his ears and Harley followed, trying to figure out where the hell they were.

The foyer turned into a lavish living room with floor to ceiling windows looking out over the city. It was haphazardly decorated with a pair of squashy white leather sofas and a large desk up against one wall, an oversized flat-screen television hanging over it. Every available surface was littered with gear - motherboards, laptops, cameras, loose wires, piles of guns and ammunition - and sitting at the desk facing three monitors was Lonnie, his attention focused on a metal sphere that looked like the one Harley had seen at the MCU the day it got gassed.

"Hola," Lonnie called moodily, glancing up at them, and when his eyes landed Harley she didn't miss his lip curl unhappily. He shifted his gaze back to the Joker. "J, I got Inzerillo, but Bertinelli's vanished in the last twelve hours. Inzerillo, on the other hand, is-"

"Figure it out," the Joker snapped, stomping past the living room and flinging open a door that led to a bathroom. Just before it slammed shut Harley spotted a few chubby cherubs painted on the ceiling.

"So," she hummed, shrugging out of her coat and leaning against the back of one couch so she could face Lonnie. "This is like your  _lair_ , huh?"

Lonnie pulled his hoodie up over his fair hair and refocused his attention on the steel ball in his tattooed hands. "It's just a place," he said shortly. "Don't ask so many questions."

 _"So_  grumpy," Harley taunted, her mouth curving into a smile as she looked around the apartment. It wasn't huge, but beneath the mess, it was the luxurious kind of space preferred by Gotham's rich and powerful. High ceilings, crown molding, marble columns, soft carpet, and floor to ceiling windows with views of the city. She suspected the private elevator was its main draw for Joker and his henchmen. Maybe it was called the Honeymoon Suite because it had been built as  _Pied a Terre_  for men having affairs. That seemed like just the kind of indulgent selling point a luxury property developer would think of.

It also seemed Lonnie had been installed there in a tech support role. She remembered it had been Lonnie asking about the fear toxin canisters, Lonnie who had blocked 911 calls during the Cassamento murders, Lonnie who had more than a passing interest in computers and mechanical engineering.

"Are you the one who got him on GCN in August?" Harley asked, wondering how much she would be able to get out of Lonnie. "You hacked into their caller system?"

Lonnie glowered at her across the room, which she took as confirmation.

"So you're what," Harley picked up a motherboard, turning it over in her hands. "His version of Q?"

"I'm not asking you why you're sticking around, am I?" Lonnie snapped, swiping a pack of cigarettes off the desk.

"I know too much to be let go," Harley replied breezily. She planted her hands behind her on the back of the couch and stretched out her legs, admiring her new boots. Flat, thigh-high, and butter-soft leather. She was in love, and she hardly  _ever_  cared about clothes.

"Exactly," Lonnie replied bitterly. "Why is he  _letting_  you stick around when there are easier ways to  _deal_  with you."

Harley lightly touched her ribs as she considered Lonnie's suggestion that she was only alive because the Joker was allowing her to be. It was precisely what she'd been turning over in her mind all day. In many ways, she was out in the wilderness with only the Joker to show her how to survive. He wasn't just  _not killing her_ , but actively keeping her alive and out of prison. For now, she needed his help, but Harley would be damned if she let it stay that way. She just didn't know  _how_  yet.

But as to the  _why_  of his assistance, after learning that Gordon had decided to lie about her status as a potential murderer, she was fairly certain the Joker wouldn't kill her until he got to see that play out. As to why he'd helped her the night before...

"Why do you call him J?" She asked abruptly, and Lonnie looked at her like she was crazy.

"Joker,  _obviously,"_  he said scathingly. "Nice eye, by the way. Battered housewife is a good look on you."

The bathroom door banged open, and the Joker appeared again, his face stark white and eyes wine-black, the new suit he'd gotten from the tailor almost blindingly purple. As he straightened his cuffs, Harley could see he was missing his usual gloves, and that his fingers were smeared with paint, transferring it onto the jacket sleeves. She had to wonder how many suits he went through, and if he was the only one keeping that tailor and his irritating wife in business.

He was radiating impatience as he checked the time on a gold pocket watch hanging from his waistcoat, then his eyes darted over to Harley.

"Let's go," he snapped at her.

Harley pursed her lips sourly, hating that she was expected to obey and follow him, no questions asked. It fundamentally went against who she was as a human being. Sticking with him was her best shot - for now - but passively allowing herself to be carted around the city wasn't going to help her change her hand. He wouldn't kill her, if only because she was proof that Gordon was a liar, but she needed to make a stand. If she allowed herself to  _only_  be his hostage, that was who she would be. It was time to mix things up. Stir the pot, as he liked to say.

Then Harley had an idea.

"Give me a minute," she requested, her eyes narrowing as she strode past him into the bathroom. "I'm just gonna fix my hair."

As the door swung shut behind her, she heard Lonnie complain, "What the fuck J, why are you -"

The bathroom was more of a powder room, with only a basin and a toilet. Like the rest of the honeymoon suite, it was at once obscenely lavish and completely trashed. The walls were pale pink marble and there were golden cherubs painted on the ceiling, one of which appeared to be sporting a bullet hole in its belly. There was a cracked, gilded mirror on the wall, and below it, an ivory basin smeared with black and red greasepaint. Three silver pots sat open on the side of the basin, their lids in the sink or on the floor.

Harley examined her face in the cracked mirror. Her eye was purple and splotchy now, but she looked more alive than she had that morning.

Harley was a planner by nature, as a kid in foster care resolved to get out of the system, as a PhD student determined to get to the top of her field, and now as a murderer on the run from the Batman. Long-term planning was impossible at the moment; she needed to collect more data about the world she now found herself in for that. But the first step toward that end was to carve out a place for herself, a position of strength from which to collect that data.

She needed to make a bold statement.

Harley cautiously dipped the tip of her finger into the pot of white paint on the side of the sink. She rubbed the tacky substance between her thumb and forefinger, imagining what it would feel like caked on her skin, and tried to picture how it would contort her face into something...  _new._

She used two fingers to scoop up a glob of the white paint, spreading it across her forehead and down the bridge of her nose, giving her eyes and mouth a wide berth like she was applying a face mask. She wiped the remaining white paint on the basin before sinking her fingers into the black paint, widening her eyes like she was applying mascara to dab the paint from eyebrow and cheekbone, filling in the gaps left by the white.

She hesitated here, the effect already jarring as she turned her head from side to side, examining the new angles of her face before pushing forward.

With her ring finger, she applied the red paint to her mouth, filling in her lips and painting a sloppy circle around them. She didn't bother to smear the paint up her cheeks, not wanting to give the Joker the satisfaction of seeing her exactly like his twin.

Harley stared at herself in the mirror, unsure how she felt about the thing staring back at her. The word that came to mind was _haunting_. It was a costume, but it was still her. She pressed her lips together, tasting the chalky paint thoughtfully.  _This will work_ , she told herself.

There was an impatient bang on the door then, and Harley braced herself before she opened it a crack, just wide enough to grab the Joker by the wrist and pull him inside the bathroom. She took a step back, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, watching his face carefully for a reaction even if it was hard when his warpaint was so fresh. But now hers was too.

His eyes widened almost comically, and Harley realized it was the first time she'd seen  _real_  surprise on his face. Then he seemed to recover, his expression relaxing as his tongue darted out to brush over his bottom lip thoughtfully, judging what he was seeing and what it meant.

"Interesting choice," he observed at length.

"We need to talk," Harley countered coldly.

But he was obviously more concerned with looking at her than listening to what she had to say. She should have guessed as much, narcissist that he was. Maybe it was bizarre seeing a female version of himself, or maybe he was feeling what people felt when they were confronted with him, or maybe she reminded him of what seeing himself in the mirror as the Joker for the first time had been like. It was an intriguing line of thought but now wasn't the time.

"I need to know more about what's happening," she informed him sternly. "I don't need to know every detail, but you can't drag me from one end of town to the other and not tell me what's going on."

He pursed his lips and cocked his head to the side like she was a puzzle he couldn't work out or a piece of art he didn't understand, and she knew he wasn't listening to her. She inhaled sharply, preparing to demand his attention, when he grabbed her roughly by her upper arm and shoved her back into the wall hard, making her bruised ribs burn. There was a knife in his hand, but he was holding it out to the side, not threatening her with it yet. He narrowed his eyes and leaned in close, his grip on her arm tightening as he watched her grit her teeth and try to move past the burning in her chest.

"What are you  _planning,_  doc," he growled, his eyes traveling over her face, following the fresh lines of paint.

"I'm  _planning_  on staying alive without relying on  _you_ ," Harley snapped, not denying his accusation. She tried to wrench her arm away but his grip tightened again, making her huff through her teeth when his fingers dug sharply into her bicep.

" _I_  see," he purred, his mouth curving into a nasty grin as he tucked the knife away inside his coat. " _You_  think you've lost control and it's eating... you...  _up_."

Harley glared at him.

"Enjoy the ride," he recommended, his lip curling unpleasantly. "Who  _knows_  where it'll take you. _"_

"I think I've handled the _ride_  pretty well so far," Harley scowled, trying to shake him off. "Maybe you don't know me very well, but I'm not really a  _follower_."

His eyes widened again before settling into a steely glare, and Harley could see he was doing some quick mental calculations, deciding what to do with her. Then his grip on her arm relaxed and Harley exhaled a breath she'd been holding, the tension in the room dropping to a level where she could at least breath, even if her heart was still hammering in her chest.

She continued to hold his gaze, refusing to back down, when she felt his thumb swipe over her arm where he'd been hurting her a moment before. He was frowning down at her, trying to work out her angle as he absentmindedly rubbed her arm through the sleeve of her dress. It stimulated Harley's memory of the slow, lazy way he'd kissed her in Bruno's kitchen, with his hand on the back of her neck, stroking her skin, and how tantalizingly soft his tongue had been against hers.

Harley's cheeks grew hot beneath the stage makeup, and she pressed her lips together as her throat tightened. She must not have hidden it very well, because his forehead eased out of its steadfast frown, his eyes darting around her painted face curiously. Then the tension swam back in, swelling around them, more potent than when they'd been fighting. But this was a different kind of tension. This was the heady crackling of physical attraction. This was  _temptation._

In one step, Harley was pressed up against him, gripping the lapels of his coat and dragging his mouth down to hers as his arm snaked around her waist and his hand snuck into her hair. His arm tightened around her, squeezing her closer until her mouth fell open in a pained gasp, but then his hand fisted into her hair, pulling it just hard enough to feel  _good_ , and her aches and pains were quickly blocked out by a desperation to get closer.

She forced him around and drove him back into the wall she'd been held against seconds earlier. A soft grunt echoed between them when his head cracked against the pink marble, but Harley didn't stop. She wrapped his tie around her hand to keep him where she wanted him, kissing him roughly as she thrust her arm under his jacket to grope his back and shoulders through his waistcoat, but it wasn't enough.

She pulled his shirt free from the back of his pants and slipped her hand beneath it, her nails skating over the bare skin of his lower back and up his spine, and she felt a growl _vibrate_  through his chest into hers. Arousal rolled through her like a tidal wave, making her stomach tense as she kissed him frantically. Then she was being whipped around, her back slamming flat against the marble as he bore down on her, his lips relentless against hers, and Harley instinctively lifted her leg to curl around his hips, pulling him closer.

His hand closed over her knee where it was hitched around his waist, then slid up her thigh to her hip, his fingers digging into her skin. Harley only realized then that her dress was hiked up around her waist, but before she could decide how she felt about that, he'd shifted to the side, his shoulder rolling back as his hand snuck between them, and he was cupping her through her underwear.

Harley made a soft, surprised sound as her head fell back against the wall, her hands curling to fists under his shirt as he slowly, almost hesitantly, rubbed his thumb over the damp fabric covering her. She met his eye, trapped between desire and shock that this was actually happening. He was staring at her grimly, his jaw tense as he hooked a finger in her underwear and pulled them to the side.

A phone started to ring. A loud, stupid, cheesy jingle that cut through the room so sharply Harley felt her whole body seize up while his hand instantly froze between her legs.

Her arm was still inside his jacket, and she could feel the vibrations of a phone rattling against her elbow. He pulled his hand away from her to retrieve the phone, even as they remained pressed together and his eyes continued to bore intensely into hers. When he held the phone up to his ear Harley nearly screamed.

 _"What_ ," he snapped, and Harley shoved him in the chest hard with both hands, forcing him back so she could get past him. His eyes were still on her as she stomped out of the bathroom on trembling legs.

* * *

**A/N: How's that for the beginning of Part 2?**

**Next: Harley and the Joker finally get some _real_  work done.**

**Please review, lol.**


	13. Chapter 13

The Harlequin

13.

* * *

The bathroom door flew open so fast it crashed into the wall and bounced shut again. Harley stormed out into the living room, her legs trembling, and her brain clouded with arousal and anger. She just needed to get _away_. She ignored the bewildered look Lonnie sent her - he was still at his desk, now holding an ice pack to his face and smoking an enormous joint - and raked a hand through her hair as she walked over to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

She pressed her palm against the cool glass, hoping it would calm her down. Her frustration was quickly morphing into horror over how  _eager_  she'd been and how fast it had escalated.

Harley lifted her hand from the glass and pressed it against her neck as she looked out over the Gotham skyline, consoling herself that it wasn't just her. Even if he was a damn sphinx, she had felt his enthusiasm in the way he'd pawed at her.  _He_  was the one who had accelerated things by touching her that way. _He_  was the one who wanted her, a horrifically arousing idea.

 _Terrible_  idea.

Harley turned away from the window, looking around for something to busy her hands with when she spotted a brown leather holster tossed aside on one of the armchairs littered with Lonnie's crap. This was where her focus should be: on the best way to play this game to keep herself alive, not an illicit bathroom tryst with the Joker. She hooked the leather straps over her shoulders and adjusted them to fit her smaller frame, then transferred her Berretta from the pocket of her coat to the holster secured at her side where it was exponentially safer.

She could feel Lonnie staring as she shrugged on her coat and stomped back to the foyer to wait, but she ignored him. There was a mirror in a golden frame propped up against the wall, so Harley squatted down to get a look at herself. That haunting, clown-like face she'd made for herself had devolved somewhat, the red paint now smeared all around her mouth and down her chin. She fished a tube of lipstick out of her coat and reapplied a standard coat, then tried to wipe away the pinkish hue around her mouth with limited success.

The bathroom door slammed open again, and Harley straightened up and lifted her chin with all the dignity she could muster as the Joker stomped up to her, his face grim and shoulders hunched, just as she'd expected. He stopped when he saw her waiting for him beside the elevator, mirroring his expression of impatience and determination, and he continued more cautiously forward, not taking his eyes off her as he pounded his fist onto the elevator call button. The doors dinged open, and they stepped into the lift together without speaking.

* * *

It was unbearably tense in the relatively small space of the elevator. Harley watched the Joker tongue his bottom lip and stare at the gold-tinted doors, intentionally avoiding looking at her. She took great pleasure in the knowledge that he was probably just as frustrated as she was. Maybe more  _physically_  uncomfortable than she was.  _Good_. That cheered her up exponentially.

Hoping to bring the mood down a few degrees, she braced her hands on the railing and leaned back, then crossed one ankle over the other and sighed dramatically. He turned his head slowly toward her, his cheeks hollowing as he lifted one eyebrow.

Harley snorted, and his eyebrow lifted even higher as the elevator doors dinged open.

"I'm driving," Harley announced, pushing past him and heading for the driver's side of the Jaguar.

"Oh,  _are_  you," the Joker drawled, but tossed her the keys nonetheless.

Harley folded her arms on the roof of the car and smirked at him as he opened his door. "Guess you're going to have to tell me where I'm going."

He pursed his lips and ducked into the car without a word, and after smiling to herself, Harley did the same, slamming the door shut as she got settled behind the wheel. She caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror and felt goosebumps break out on her arms. Seeing her face changed by the warpaint was both frightening and empowering, and it made her feel like she was girding herself for battle. It made  _sense._

"So?" She started the car and shot the Joker an appraising look. He was tonguing the scar tissue inside his cheek, thoughtfully and staring at her knee, maybe thinking about what had happened in the bathroom — maybe trying to figure out her angle. Maybe thinking about what could have happened if his phone hadn't started ringing. "Where am I going?" Harley nudged the car forward toward the exit.

He sniffed derisively and leaned over the gearshift, his expression serious.

" _Sure_ , why not..." he started gravely. "Enrico Inzerillo has noticed his pals are uh... _disappearing_ , and wants to make a deal."

Harley lifted an eyebrow. "Let me guess, a deal where he saves himself and tells you where Maroni is and... what was the other one?"

"Bertinelli," he said sharply, drawing back to lounge in his seat. "So uh, we're gonna go hear what  _Enrico_  has to say."

Harley waited for the parking garage door to rattle open, flicking on her blinker before laying her foot down on the gas and peeling out. The car lurched into the sparse Midtown traffic, fishtailing before straightening out to the sound of at least three horns blaring their irritation. Harley winced and glanced sideways at the Joker, who only widened his eyes as if to say,  _Really?_

"It's been a while since I've driven," Harley defended herself weakly.

"Uh huh," he replied flatly, his eyes darting back to the windshield. "Get on the freeway to South Channel," he directed. "We're meetin' him at the Murder Dock."

"The  _Murder_  Dock?" Harley laughed, navigating the Jag toward the Midtown Bridge, which connected the main island of Gotham to the Eastside. When the Joker didn't reply she glanced at him again, hoping an explanation to something as trivial as the 'Murder Dock' wouldn't be kept from her.

He ran his tongue over his teeth, keeping his eyes forward as they drove over the bridge. "Carmine  _Falcone's_  Murder Dock," he elaborated.

"I take it Carmine Falcone used to murder people there," Harley said dispassionately. "Makes sense Inzerillo would want to meet you there."

The Joker turned to look at her, squinting owlishly. "And why is _that_?" There was a note of suspicion in his voice that could have also been curiosity, and Harley shrugged easily.

"All these Maroni guys, they used to be Falcone guys, right?" She took his silence as confirmation and continued. "You've killed what, two of the five most important guys? Do you  _really_ think Inzerillo won't ask you to make him the head honcho in exchange for information on Maroni and - what was his name? - Bertinelli?"

 _"Obviously_ ," the Joker drawled, rolling his eyes. "But uh... what does that have to do with  _Carmine_  Falcone?"

"Because if Inzerillo is the only one left alive that makes him the new Falcone," Harley said, pulling onto the freeway. "Unless you have some other connection to Falcone..."

"Just fucking drive," he snapped in an uncharacteristic show of anger.

 _"Ooohoooh_ ," Harley taunted, laying her foot down on the gas and darting between cars on the highway. Something about his sullen mood was putting her in a  _great_  mood. "Someone's grumpy."

He didn't reply to that, opting to stare out the windshield like there was an answer waiting for him on the hood of the car.

"How do  _you_  know so much about the mob, huh?" He asked at length, his tone thick with malice.

"He's at Arkham," Harley shrugged. "Harvey Dent wanted to use him as a witness, but there was no way he had the mental capacity to give competent testimony. Not even that antidote helped. I gave Dent a second opinion when he wouldn't accept Walsh's."

 _"And..."_  the Joker pushed.

" _And_  Gordon gave me everything he had related to your case," she added lightly. "Including Dent's investigation into the Falcone Crime Family." She looked sideways at him, the playful note in her voice evaporating. "I know everything."

 _"Interesting_ ," the Joker purred, his voice shifting from pissed to intrigued and maybe a little threatening. "You're just _full_  of secrets... aren't you."

"Ironic coming from you," Harley scoffed. "Besides...  _you_  never asked."

They lapsed into silence for a full twenty minutes, during which time Harley gloated because for once _she_  wasn't the one with questions and  _he_  was the one out of the loop. Perhaps she should have kept what she knew about Falcone and Dent's investigation closer to her chest, but it wasn't an especially radical revelation, and besides, if she shared with him, maybe he would be more acquiescing to answer her questions. Prominently among them, why he was bringing her to the so-called  _Murder Dock_  to make a deal with a man he should have been tracking down to kill.

They reached the exit for South Channel Island, a dismal neighborhood notorious for its lack of police presence and about as far east as you could get without hitting the ocean. It was mostly made up of abandoned warehouses and factories populated by squatters and addicts. The Jaguar stuck out like a sore thumb, but there were so few people on the street that it hardly mattered. Not even the mob bothered to operate South Channel.

The Joker directed Harley to an abandoned box park where the East River dumped out into the Atlantic Ocean. He hopped out to push open a gate that no one had bothered to lock, and after a few more minutes of winding through stacks of shipping containers - some of which appeared to be housing squatters - Harley realized this was the same area as the pier she'd been taken to after the Crowne Gala. But instead of heading toward the ocean where the pier had been, he had her park near the river.

It was completely secluded and abandoned; no wonder this was where the mob murdered people.

Following the Joker's lead, Harley climbed out of the car and trailed behind him through a maze of shipping containers. He stuck close to the containers in the shadows, and Harley did the same, trying to give him a wide berth while staying close by. She could feel the paranoia radiating off him, his usual levels of arrogance depleted for the moment. He was being _careful_  she realized, something she didn't associate with his freewheeling act. Still, a healthy dose of paranoia was reassuring - it suggested he wasn't going to lead her into a trap.  _He_  was the one with experience on how to stay alive, so she stuck close by until they finally rounded a corner that led onto a long dock with a single lamppost.

Standing beneath the dim yellow light was a thin man with his back to them, and Harley could already see how this would go. They would come out of the shadows, scare him with their very presence and deranged warpaint, not to mention their ability to appear out of nowhere, and Inzerillo would be on the backfoot.

That's exactly how it went, Harley sticking close to the Joker's side as they snuck up behind him.

"Fancy seeing you here,  _Enrico_ ," the Joker purred, and the thin man spun around, his eyes wide as his hand flew to the gun holstered at his hip.

Inzerillo's face was gaunt, his cheekbones high and hollow like a cartoon villain. He wore a heavy overcoat with a white scarf draped around his neck like he was on his way to a night at the opera. Just one quick stop at the Murder Dock before curtain call, Harley thought wryly.

"Joker," he spat venomously, his eyes darting to Harley. "You said to come alone."

"Don't mind Harley," the Joker drawled, floating closer with a strange, feline grace that made Inzerillo visibly bristle.

"Harley? As in Harleen Quinzel?" Inzerillo snapped incredulously. "As in your  _shrink_?"

" _Yep_ ," the Joker smirked cruelly, and Inzerillo waved a hand in front of his face like he was trying to bat away an insect.

" _Fine."_  He sounded less than fine. "Let's talk. You killed Santo and Tomasso. I can only assume you're coming for Sal and Franco and me next. Why?"

"Is  _why_  important?" The Joker mused, keeping his voice light and unthreatening. He was in constant motion, and Harley realized he was  _circling_  Inzerillo, forcing him to look over his shoulder and turn to keep the Joker in his sights. "How about you tell  _us_  what you know, then we can work something out that makes everyone happy, hmmm?"

There were a few long seconds of silence, during which Inzerillo looked between Harley and the Joker nervously, trying to hide his fear by pressing his thin lips together. What a pathetic excuse for a mob boss, Harley thought.

"Maroni has gone underground," he said, at last, looking uneasy. "No one can find him. I have... put feelers out, but so far all I've learned is he's still in Gotham and communicating with a few trusted advisors. His wife and children have left town, maybe left the country. That's all."

"That's  _all?_ " The Joker feigned a wince before abruptly slapping a hand down on Inzerillo's shoulder, making him blink nervously. " _Enrico_ , that's, uh...  _disappointing_."

"Wait!" Inzerillo sputtered, trying to turn so his back wasn't to the Joker but finding himself face to face with Harley instead. "Franco! I can tell you where Franco Bertinelli is hiding out! He might know where to find Maroni."

The Joker sucked in a breath through his nose and squeezed Inzerillo's shoulder hard enough to make the other man cry out. " _Okay_ ," he said at last. "Let's hear it."

"He's in the Bowery, hiding out with some of Mickey Sullivan's boys."

 _"Address_?" The Joker purred, backing away from Inzerillo to stand beside Harley, his hands folding neatly in front of him.

"Avenue X and... Seventy-third..." No longer being circled like prey seemed to bolster Inzerillo, he puffed up his chest and raised his chin imperiously. "I expect my life to be spared," he said haughtily as if having the Joker out of his personal space had given him a new sense of entitlement. "And when the time is right, I expect you will support my position as kingpin once Bertinelli and Maroni are gone. It's only logical that I should take over the family."

"Oh,  _sure,_ " the Joker deadpanned, shooting Harley a speculative look as she continued to squint at Inzerillo, judging him.

"Sure?" Inzerillo spat in disbelief. "That's it? How will I know you'll keep your side of the bargain?"

"Can anyone ever be sure of _anything_  in this world?" the Joker heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Listen, I'm a man of my word. Just ask _anyone_."

"Fine," Inzerillo spat, starting to back away. "I expect your support, Joker."

"Sure, sure," the Joker waved him off. "See ya around."

Inzerillo shot Harley one last confused glare before turning on his heel and stomping down the dock, his dignity hanging by a thread.

Harley looked up at the Joker, who was licking his bottom lip rhythmically as he watched Inzerillo move farther away.

"You can't be serious," she said flatly. "Screw Penguin's list, that guy is an asshole."

"He's a  _snitch_ ," the Joker corrected, turning his full attention to Harley, his dark eyes glittering beneath the dim yellow light above them. "But ya see Harley, I'm a man of my _word_. I made him a promise." He was using that sing-song voice he reserved for when he wanted to be  _really_  manipulative.

Harley pressed her lips together, unsure what to make of this streak of honor he seemed to think he had. Or pretended to have. But now  _she_  was tied up in this mess he'd made, and  _she_  did not intend to get screwed over by that gaunt sonofabitch.

"Well, _I_  didn't promise anything," she retorted and pulled the Beretta from its new holster at her side.

"I was  _hoping_  you'd say that," the Joker purred, his mouth curving salaciously. He took a significant step to the side and made a sweeping gesture indicating Inzerillo was all hers.

"You're such a prick," Harley muttered, which earned her one of those low, private chuckles as she lifted her arm and took aim at Inzerillo's back. He was about ten yards away by then, relatively far, but how hard could it be? She'd managed to hit that henchman at the pier in the face easily enough.

Harley closed one eye and pulled the trigger, the blast making her arm bounce.

It didn't land anywhere near him, hitting a shipping container instead. Inzerillo spun around, and even from that distance, Harley could see the hunted look on his face. She tried again and missed again, and Inzerillo turned and began to run.

" _Wow..._  you're a  _terrible_  shot," the Joker informed her, reaching into his jacket to retrieve the automatic with an extended magazine Harley had seen him use before. He held it out to her expectantly, waiting for her to take it. "Just hold down the trigger, and uhh, you'll hit him eventually."

Harley turned the gun over in her hands, giving it a quick inspection. She didn't know anything about firearms, but this one was bigger and heavier than the Beretta, and even with her limited knowledge she could tell it had been modified somehow, that it wasn't a weapon he'd just bought off the rack. She aimed again and pulled the trigger, and this time a spray of bullets shot off into the night, making her whole arm rattle.

The Joker was right, and she did hit him eventually. Inzerillo's legs flew out from under him, and he collapsed in a heap on his stomach.

"Brav- _oh_ ," the Joker smirked as they strolled up the dock to Inzerillo's body.

But Inzerillo wasn't dead yet. He was groaning and choking, crying out pitifully when the Joker used his foot to roll him onto his back. Harley folded her arms over her chest and watched passively as the Joker squatted down beside the dying man, his expression placid as he rested his elbows on his thighs and inspected the mess before him.

"You said you were a man of your word," Inzerillo gargled, blood spilling out of his mouth.

"Oh, I am," the Joker replied cheerfully, hiking a thumb back at Harley. "But  _she_  didn't promise you _shit_."

"You... bastard..." Inzerillo gagged, his eyes rolling up in his head as the life left his body.

The Joker stood up and stretched his arms up over his head with a satisfied grunt, then retrieved a phone from the depths of his coat as he shot Harley a cursory glance.

"Get the car," he snapped, already holding the phone up to his ear and turning away from her.

Harley bristled, taken aback that he'd gone from almost friendly to dismissive within seconds. She turned around quickly, unwilling to let him see her reaction, and told herself it  _didn't_  bother her as she followed the path back to the car. If she let it bother her, that gave him power, the kind of power psychopaths extolled over their victims. A little bit of affection, a little bit of fear, and a healthy dose of dismissal until the victim was begging for their approval and attention.

Harley was not his victim.

_No fucking way._

It was textbook, whether he was doing it intentionally or not, and as Harley walked back to the car she reminded herself that she did _not_  need him or his approval, _or_  his affection, and that she was perfectly capable of being happy on her own. Yes,  _happy_  might have been asking a little much considering her current situation, which was essentially stuck with him until she figured out something better. She didn't know  _exactly_  what she would do or how she would do it, but she was working on it. She would do it on her own and on her terms.

This was  _temporary_.

Harley drove the Jag back to where the Joker was waiting with Inzerillo's body, arriving to find him rifling through the dead man's pockets. He looked up when she cut the engine and popped the trunk, watching with interest as she circled the car and squatted down beside Inzerillo's feet before shooting the Joker an expectant look. After a few seconds of thoughtfully prodding his split bottom lip the Joker ducked down to grab Inzerillo under the armpits while Harley took his ankles, and together they lifted him, swinging the body into the trunk of the car, neither of them speaking.

The Joker slammed the trunk shut and raked a hand through his hair, shooting Harley a sly, sideways look.

"Ready for round two?" He smirked lazily.

"Sure," she agreed with a shrug. Because really, what the hell else was she going to do.

* * *

In the end, they abandoned the Jag with Inzerillo's body in the trunk. Harley assumed he'd arranged to have it picked up by one of the more trusted minions while she'd gone to get the car, but she wasn't in the mood to check up on the Joker's administrative tasks. They left the box park in Inzerillo's car, a spacious town car with blacked-out windows and tan leather seats that looked like a chauffeur might have typically driven it. It was lucky for Inzerillo's driver that he'd been given the night off.

The Bowery district was about fifteen minutes from the box park, and Harley spent the drive growing anxious over how little planning was going into Round Two. It was just the two of them and the guns they had on their person, and she really _was_  a terrible shot. No backup thugs, no getaway driver, no absurdly complicated technological blackout courtesy of Lonnie. It was just them and the address a traitor had given them.

The Joker seemed exceedingly confident as if anything they could come up against was nothing more or less than he could handle. Harley knew this was just a symptom of his narcissism but still found it comforting. Typically, narcissists' arrogance muddied their ability to make good choices, but the Joker had an irritatingly good track record of getting in and out of tricky situations. The confidence was somewhat earned in his case, though Harley would never admit it out loud to him.

She had accused him only a short time ago of meticulously planning every detail, but it seemed she'd been wrong about that. Maybe that was the point of the night's activities. To show her just how  _unplanned_  things could be. Or, fate was just an asshole and reminding Harley in real-time that people weren't black and white, that the Joker had  _layers_.

The town car rolled to a stop down the street from a large brownstone covered in graffiti, a building that had once been a school if the cracked sign declaring it "Bowery Elementary" was any indication. The street outside was empty aside from one bulky man smoking a cigarette beside the school entrance.

Schoolhouse turned mob bunker hideout. It was downright dystopian.

"Oh- _kaaayy_ ," the Joker drawled, eyeing up the building through the windshield. He pursed his lips and rocked his head from side to side. "How about you go in there and uh, clear the place out for me, huh?"

Harley turned to look at him, her forehead creasing in a frown. "I can't tell if you're kidding," she said at last.

The right side of his mouth stretched up in a brief, almost affectionate half-smile, but it disappeared just as quickly, and Harley still didn't know if he'd been joking. He thrust his arm into his coat and fished around until he found what he was looking for, and Harley's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates when he produced a grenade.

"You're just carrying that around!" She hissed in disbelief while he tossed it from one hand to the other, his eyes dancing wickedly.

"Got anywhere you can hide it?" He smirked, enjoying her anxiety like the sadist he was.

"How is me going in there and setting off a  _grenade_  going to help?" She demanded. "I'll get blown up right along with Bertinelli!"

The Joker rolled his eyes like she was unreasonable. "It's only a  _little_  grenade. Throw it about, oh, twenty feet, and you'll be fine. Maybe a little tinnitus, but  _mostly_  fine."

Harley stared at him as he continued to toss the grenade from one hand to the other, trying to figure out what kind of game he was playing. The building was too big for them to just run in guns blazing like he'd done at Grin and Bare It. They would be swamped well before they found Franco Bertinelli. So they needed a  _plan._

Harley opened the glove compartment and poked around inside, eventually finding a dust cloth that would do the trick. She pulled down the sun visor and peered at herself in the small mirror. It surprised her again to see her face painted like his, but each time she saw it, it felt less rattling and more familiar. She began scrubbing her face with the cloth, scraping away most of the paint aside from some stubborn black clumps stuck to her eyelashes and the perma-red stain of her lips. It was good enough, though.

She tossed the cloth aside and shrugged out of her jacket to remove the leather holster, which she threw at the Joker.

"Planning something?" he asked coyly as she pulled her coat back on.

Harley looked at him, squarely. "I'll find Bertinelli and distract his guards. You come to get us."

He blinked owlishly at her. "Uh,  _what_?"

"You heard me," Harley snapped, pulling her coat back on before pushing the car door open. She was hoping he'd come up with something decent if she forced him to improvise. "This is a shitty plan," she added, stepping out of the car, and the Joker ducked down to catch her eye through the open window as the car door swung shut.

"The best plans sound like shit," he advised sagely, and when she rolled her eyes and started to turn away, he stopped her, saying her name quietly. " _Harley."_  She turned back to see he was offering her a knife in a leather sheath. "In your boot," he recommended as she accepted it warily.

She took off down the block then, trying hard not to look over her shoulder for reassurance. When she was still a few yards away from the man guarding the entrance, she stopped to wedge the knife in her boot behind her right thigh. The guard wore a flat cap covering bright red hair, his face was a mass of freckles, and as Harley approached, he took one last drag on his cigarette before tossing it to the pavement and crushing it under his heel.

"You look lost, lass," he said, eyeing her suspiciously.

 _Right_ , Harley thought.  _Mickey Sullivan's boys._

"I'm looking for Mr Bertinelli," she said carefully, watching the man's face for a reaction, but he only squinted at her like he was confused, then laughed.

"You're looking for Mr Bertinelli?" When Harley nodded, he laughed again and gestured for her to follow him through the school's main entrance. Waiting on the other side of the glass were a pair of bored-looking thugs toting military-grade assault rifles and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes.

"She's lookin' for Mr Bertinelli," the man chuckled by way of introduction, but neither of the thugs looked amused.

"Who sent you?" One demanded gruffly.

"Sofia Falcone," Harley replied, praying the name would be one that got her past them safely. Sofia Falcone was a socialite and a designer, but her father was the biggest mobster Gotham had ever seen, and as Harley had pointed out to the Joker, all of these Maroni men were initially Falcone men. What were the chances she didn't have some connection to these men, even if it was just a passing familial friendship from when she was younger? It was a gamble, but Harley estimated it was a good one.

"You work for Sofia Falcone?" The other thug asked. He was wearing a suit that looked like he'd slept in it, his shirt untucked from his trousers, his tie askew. They were  _really_  worried out about the Joker killing their boss, Harley realized.

"Yeah," she said quietly.

"Why didn't she send one of her boys?" The thug pushed back, exhaling a lungful of smoke.

Sofia Falcone had  _boys_? Harley recalibrated accordingly.

"I'm her assistant. I work in the store," she explained meekly. "Please, I'm just doing what I'm told."

The thug flicked the end of his cigarette away, considering Harley through the haze of smoke. "What's your name?"

Harley swallowed, and the first pretentious, socialite-sounding name that came to her was: "Peaches Kane."

"Alright, Peaches," the thug said, pulling a cell phone from his pants' pocket.

He turned away from them to make a quick call, and a third thug wearing a suit in only slightly better condition came trotting down the stairs shortly after that. He also had an assault rifle slung over his shoulder, but he seemed to be wearing it more like an accessory than the others. Harley noted that the first two thugs were freckled and ginger, this new one was tanned and wearing a garish gold medallion.

"Peaches, right?" He asked her with none of the lascivious slime she'd expected. "I'm Donny. Whatever it is Ms Falcone sent you for, you can tell me."

Harley bit down on her bottom lip, feeling she was on the verge of losing control of the situation. "Actually, she told me to ask to speak to Mr Bertinelli myself. It's... personal."

Donny pursed his mouth. "Personal," he repeated. "Like blow job personal?"

A spark of indignant fury lit up in Harley's chest, but she forced herself to hide it. " _No._ "

"Sorry," Donny shrugged, not looking the least bit sorry. "Do me a favor and don't tell Sofie I said that okay?"

 _Sofie_.

"Okay," Harley agreed weakly.

To her great surprise, that seemed to be the sum total of Bertinelli's vetting process. Donny took her lightly by the elbow and led her past the two heavily armed thugs and up the wide flight of stairs to the second floor. At the top of the stairs there was a light blinking strobe-like, and beneath it stood another pair of thugs wearing wrinkled suits, also armed with assault rifles. Donny nodded to them as he pushed open a set of doors leading into a hallway lined with school lockers and lit by a red floodlight. Directly on the other side of the door was another set of thugs armed to the teeth, and Harley began to realize this group valued weapons capable of mass casualties more than they did smart security practice.

Halfway down the hall, there was yet another pair of thugs, these guarding what would have once been a classroom but was now - if the opera blaring through cheap speakers inside was any indication - a foxhole for Franco Bertinelli to hide out in.

One of the guards searched Harley, making sure to cop a feel as he palmed the pockets inside her coat. Harley allowed it, keeping her expression passive despite her growing irritation with Bertinelli's men. When they'd incorrectly determined she wasn't armed, Donny took her into the classroom.

It was dimly lit by candles and a few Tiffany lamps to give the hideout some ambiance. There was a makeshift bed in the corner, an air mattress covered in a richly embroidered duvet and throw pillows. In front of an old chalkboard was a throne-like armchair flanked by another two thugs with rifles. The man sitting there looked remarkably like an older Bruno, tall and wide with large hands and a fleshy face. He was bent over a mirror, hoovering up a line of cocaine, and when Donny introduced Harley, he looked up at her with watery, desperate eyes.

"Sofie sent you?" He asked hopefully, raking a hand through his oiled, black hair.

Harley pressed her lips together. There it was again.  _Sofie_. Perfect.

"Yes," Harley said with a sad smile. "She wanted me to tell you she's thinking about you. And she wants to know if there's anything she can do to help."

Bertinelli wiped his eyes, and Harley felt a little bad for this big crying man forced to hide out in a schoolhouse.

"She's a good girl," he said stoically and ran his hand over his hair a few more times like he was trying to soothe himself.

"She misses you," Harley improvised, and Bertinelli shook his head as he smiled to himself, then bent over the mirror to sniff up another line.

"Maybe she can ask Crowne to help me," he perked up, sounding hopeful as he rubbed his nose. "She's in tight with Bertie, and the Joker would never expect that."

Crowne was _in tight_  with Sofia Falcone? Did that mean more than lunch-at-the-Ritz, cocktails-at-the-gala friendly?

"I don't know anything about that," Harley said softly. "I just work in the shop."

"Of course you do. I bet Sofie looks after you, don't she?" Bertinelli started smoothing his hair back again. "Tell her I'll take any help she can give. We've got the boys combing the city for the Joker, but that motherfucker is impossible to find unless he wants to be."

Harley didn't say anything.

"When this is all over," Bertinelli continued, more to himself than Harley. "Sofie deserves to be the kingpin. It's her right, not Maroni's. She's the one takin' care of the money now. It should be her. You tell her I'll make it happen, will ya Peaches? If any of us live through this, that is."

Harley's eyebrows raised and Donny stepped in before his boss could spill any more secrets to a lowly shopgirl.

"Alright, Boss," Donny said, slapping a hand on Bertinelli's meaty shoulder. "Why donchta slow down on that stuff. I'll get Peaches home safe and sound."

Bertinelli nodded and opened his mouth, but before he could say anything further, an engine began revving loudly out on the street. A pair of tires squealed, and a second later there was an immense crash of metal colliding with brick that made the schoolhouse shudder. Bertinelli and his thugs froze, waiting with wide, paranoid eyes for an explanation, when automatic gunfire erupted below them, kicking Bertinelli's men into action. The two guards flanking him moved to cover him while Donny shifted his assault rifle from under-utilized accessory to front and center, aiming at the open door and looking ready to shoot anyone who appeared there. For the moment, they all seemed to forget about Harley.

"Let's get you out of here, Franco," Donny said confidently, over the sound of rapid machine-gun fire beneath them. "Come-"

But Donny was cut off as an explosion out in the hallway suddenly rocked the building. Heat and dust swept past the open door, throwing the two guards still out in the hall off their feet, and when the dust cleared there was an arm laying in front of the door, and the shooting had stopped.

The two guards scrambled into the classroom for cover. "It's the Joker!" One of them cried, and Donny swore furtively before turning to Harley.

"You! I know you..." He accused, pointing his rifle at her. "You're that fucking shrink, aren't ya!"

Harley yelped in protest as Donny grabbed her and forced her around, pinning her back to his chest as he wedged the rifle under her chin.

"Oh, Fraaaaankiiiieeeeee," the Joker's voice was light, nasal, sinister, and just outside the door. Harley felt Donny's hands start to shake.

One of the guards bravely stepped out into the hallway with his weapon raised, but before he could pull the trigger his head snapped back, a spray of blood arching behind him, and he collapsed, dead.

"We got your girl!" Donny shouted, waving Bertinelli behind him as his guards edged closer to the door, creating a bottleneck of men the Joker would have to get through if he entered the room. "Harleen Quinzel, Joker, you don't wanna lose her do ya!"

Harley heard the Joker sigh melodramatically out in the hallway, like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. She calculated it likely that he would _try_  to keep her alive so as not to throw a wrench in the whole Gordon-Can't-Be-Trusted Narrative, but she could almost _see_  him weighing it up on the other side of that damned wall. He was taking too long; the school building was huge, and there was no doubt a cavalry on its way.

God, this was a shitty plan.

Putting her faith in whatever deity was listening, Harley grabbed the knife out of the back of her boot and stabbed blindly behind her at Donny's neck. She felt the knife sink in and heard him choke as the blade cut through something she hoped was important. Then she batted the barrel of his rifle away, getting it out of her face before he could blow her head off. The three remaining guards turned to her in surprise, raising their weapons as Harley scrambled to loop her finger over Donny's to hold down his rifle's trigger. A spray of bullets crossed the room, hitting one guard in the head, one in the chest and clipping the third's leg.

Bertinelli roared like a wounded animal as Donny fell to the floor, and when Harley spun around, she came face to face with the barrel of a gold-plated gun. Moving faster than she'd ever moved in her life, she threw her leg up in a high kick, her foot connecting with Bertinelli's hand just as he pulled the trigger. The gun fired into the ceiling before it clattered to the floor. Bertinelli stared at Harley, frozen in shock, just long enough for Harley to punch him in the throat. That old sorority self-defense class move that had never worked quite right before worked like a charm this time. Bertinelli staggered backward, gagging and clutching his throat, his eyes huge with surprise.

Out in the hallway, she could hear two men fighting, the meaty slap of flesh hitting flesh followed by a snarl so feral it could only be the Joker. Harley kept her eyes on Bertinelli, watching him swoon until she felt movement behind her. The third guard was limping straight for her, his rifle raised high under his armpit. Harley dropped to her knees and scrambled for the gun lying useless beside Donny's body, but when she tried to pull the trigger, it jammed. That seemed to be enough for the limping guard to decide she wasn't worth the trouble as he darted past her to grab Bertinelli by the back of his shirt, and dragged him out of the room.

Harley looked around frantically, knowing she couldn't just let them get away. She had to use two hands to get the Joker's knife out of Donny's neck, then spotted Bertinelli's gold-plated gun on the floor and quickly snapped it up before jumping to her feet and sprinting after them. Once in the doorway, she looked left and right down the hall, her heart pounding. Right was what remained of the hallway - crumbling brick and mortar, twisted metal and dead men in pieces - and the Joker sitting on top of an injured guard, both of them fighting for control over a rifle squeezed between them.

There was a  _pop-pop-pop-pop-pop_  of bullets from her left, the guard trying to help Bertinelli escape telling her to stay back, forcing Harley to dodge back into the classroom for cover. She hid behind the door frame, hoping  _this time_  her aim would be just _slightly_  better as she fired the gold-plated gun out into the hallway until the cartridge was empty. She peered around the doorframe, elated to see that at least  _one_  of her bullets hit the guard now laying face down in a widening pool of blood on the floor.

Bertinelli had visibly paled, and when Harley stepped back out into the hallway, he took off at a run for the window at the end of the hall. Harley bolted after him, determined to stop him before he got there. She overtook him and tried to tackle him, but he was easily three times the size of her, and she ended up clinging to his back as he staggered forward, desperately trying to shake her off. Harley stabbed him in the shoulder with a muffled cry, making Bertinelli scream as he finally managed to shake her off. She landed hard on the floor, wincing as searing pain jumped through her ribs and chest, and in the time it took her to recover, Bertinelli jumped out the open window, the knife still sticking out of his shoulder.

She was about to go after him when a nearly inhuman snarl from the opposite direction caught her attention. Harley whipped around to see the Joker still struggling with the guard for control of the rifle. But he was on his back now, and the guard was inches from strongarming the barrel of the gun into his face. A fissure of panic rushed through Harley, and she dashed forward, weaponless and with no idea what she was supposed to do.

Improvising, she kicked the guard in the face hard, and he reeled back, blood pouring down his face. The Joker sat up and grabbed the gun, and put a string of bullets into the guard's torso.

Harley felt relief course through her as the guard's body slumped sideways, sliding off the Joker, but it was short-lived relief. New voices echoed up the stairs and feet were pounding away beneath them as the cavalry finally arrived. She offered the Joker her hand, and he took it, letting her pull him to his feet.

"Window," he snapped, not letting go of her hand as they ran down the hallway to the window Bertinelli had disappeared through. She ducked out first, hesitating when she discovered it was a six-foot drop to a lower gravel roof. But more bullets were blowing down the hallway behind them now, so Harley jumped without thinking, her feet sliding in the gravel on the lower roof as she rolled to absorb the shock.

She looked up to see the Joker had one leg out the window already, firing a last, erratic round of bullets into the hallway before flinging himself down after her. He landed less gracefully, falling to his knees then leaping up again, accidentally pulling the trigger of his favored automatic and sending gravel spraying up around them. But he was already running toward the edge of the roof, leaving Harley to chase after him, gravel spitting all around them as the new arrivals tried to shoot them from the window.

There was a fire escape, and Harley had only managed to climb down three rungs before the Joker abruptly shoved her off the ladder. She landed on all fours on the lower level, the entire structure rattling unsteadily under her weight, and when she looked up, she saw he was climbing down the ladder one-handed while shooting haphazardly across the roof at their pursuers. Harley decided he would be fine, and rushed down the final two levels of the fire escape until her feet finally hit the concrete.

She looked up and down the street, adrenaline making her antsy to get moving. The Joker landed beside her, his face set in grim determination as he grabbed her arm and nearly pulled it out of socket getting her to run across the road. Bertinelli's men had reached the edge of the roof by then too, the sounds of their guns firing nearly deafening as they sprinted down the street and around the corner where they were out of range, both of them miraculously alive.

The Joker's eyes darted up and down this new street, looking for the opening he needed to get them out of there, and Harley sensed he  _believed_  there would be one if he willed it into being. She felt a surge of dismay, like the myth of him was fading before her very eyes as they stood there helplessly with Bertinelli's men closing in behind them, and no amount of narcissistic confidence could save them.

Then it arrived. A piece of shit Cadillac was heading up the empty street, and the Joker's eyes lit up. He grabbed Harley's arm and dragged her into the road to stand in front of the oncoming vehicle, shooting haphazardly at the asphalt in front of them as the car came squealing to a stop. The Joker shoved Harley toward the passenger side as a Latina boy jumped out of the driver's seat, spitting expletive-laden threats until he realized just who was carjacking him.

The Joker was on top of the kid before he had a chance to do anything more than blink stupidly, pistol-whipping him across the face to knock him out, then pushing him aside so he could take his place behind the wheel. Then his foot was on the gas, and the car was shooting forward before either of their doors had even shut.

Cautious driving seemed not to be on the cards this time. Harley held onto the dashboard to keep herself from flying across the car as the Joker jerked the wheel hard to the left, and they went careening around a corner onto a wider street and through a red light. There were police sirens in the distance, and Harley cranked down the window to see what was behind them, but the street was empty, not another car or a police cruiser in sight. She let the wind rush past her for a few seconds, cooling down her spiraling brain before she finally collapsed back in her seat, breathing heavily.

"Jesus," she muttered, and the Joker snorted before yanking the wheel again, making the car fishtail as he rounded another corner.

Harley noticed then that he was only driving with his left hand, his right arm held tight against his side, and when they next passed under a street lamp, she saw the sleeve of his jacket was torn and stained almost black.

"You got shot?" She almost screamed, her voice pitching into hysterical.

He looked down at his arm and then back at the road and down again. "Oh, uh, yeah," was all he said, returning his attention to the road and taking another sharp turn. "Just a scratch," he added offhandedly, though there was a tightness in his voice that indicated otherwise.

"Do we need to go to the hospital?" Harley sputtered, not sure what the protocol for getting _shot_  was. Now that she was looking she could see he wasn't in good shape; blood, dried and fresh was running down the side of his face, and there was soot in his hair and caked into the white paint on his jaw. The paint was all over the place, smeared with sweat and blood. But aside from that tightness in his voice and the way he was blinking like a frog in a hailstorm, he seemed to be holding it together.

He snickered shrilly and ran his tongue back and forth along his split bottom lip. "Not sure if my  _health_  insurance is up to date," he shot her a meaningful look as they sped down a side street. "By the way... what the  _fuck_  was all _that_?"

"What?" Harley asked shakily, having a hard time keeping up. She was worried about him, which he didn't deserve, but that didn't make it any less the case, and in her heightened state, her emotions were running high and close to the surface.

 _"How_  did you get out that room?" He asked gruffly, yanking the wheel again, taking them onto a more suburban street crowded with ramblers built in the early 20th century, most of them in disarray.

"I don't know, I fought back," Harley said woodenly, trying to remember what had happened. "Maybe it was instinct."

 _"Instinct_ ," he scoffed. "There were  _three_  bodies in that room when you left it, and you kicked that fucker off me like he was  _nothing_." It felt like an accusation more than an observation, and it made Harley bristle.

"Someone was pointing a gun at my head, and I reacted," she snapped. Three bodies. Four bodies counting the thug she'd killed trying to escape with Bertinelli. Five if you counted the one she helped the Joker with. Six including Inzerillo. It had happened so fast, and she hadn't even thought about what she was doing. She just acted, and now six people had died by her hand in the span of a few short hours.

" _Stop,_ " he scowled as if he knew what was going through her head. He stomped down on the brake and the car jolted to a stop in the middle of the road. He took the keys out of the ignition and struggled to get out of the car with his arm pressed tight to his side.

Harley watched as he threw the keys into the yard of one of the houses then started hobbling down the street with his shoulders up around his ears. She realized she would be left there if she didn't follow, and scrambled to get out of the car to catch up with him, confused and scared and in need of someplace to sit quietly and pull herself together.

When she reached him, he shot her a cursory look but otherwise ignored her as they passed a handful of houses, then snuck down the side of one especially abandoned-looking house. They stuck to shadows as they crossed the house's overgrown backyard and moved into the yard of the house behind it, following it out onto the street parallel to the one they'd left the car on.

He was obsessively checking over his shoulder and glaring into dark corners as they dodged through another row of backyards until he finally stopped in one that seemed more uncared for than the others. All of the lights in the house were on, but the Joker headed for the back door anyway, and when Harley tried to point this out he told her in no uncertain terms to shut the fuck up. He staggered up the short steps to the back porch with Harley on his heels, then used his uninjured shoulder to force the back door open.

Harley had come to understand that nothing was what it seemed, and when she stepped into the kitchen of the neglected little house with all its lights on, she could tell from the smell that no one had been there for quite a long time.

If the crocheted feline theme of the kitchen was any indication, the house belonged to an older woman. The tea towels hanging over the oven were printed with kittens, the oven mitt dangling from a hook above the stove featured a sassy feline, even the mat in front of the sink had goddamn cats on it. There was a rickety wood table for two in the center, crochet placemats laying in front of each chair and a set of cat shaped salt n'pepper shakers between them. It was like the house was  _waiting_  for someone to come home.

The Joker stomped through the kitchen into a well-lit living room, and after taking a moment to get her bearings, Harley followed him. Her eyes widened when she stepped into the other room. The sheer amount of cat paraphernalia boarded on disturbing, but it was the Hospice bed in the center of the room that confirmed her suspicions that something  _strange_  had happened in this house.

Usually, she might have asked, but she had a feeling she wouldn't like the answer, so she settled for watching the Joker struggle out of his overcoat, snarling and muttering to himself until he was free of it. Beneath the coat, he wore a suit jacket that matched his pants, the right sleeve soaked black with blood. It was dripping down his arm and onto the carpet, trickling bright red over the back of his hand and fingers. He sat slowly on the dark blue corduroy couch, exhaling through clenched teeth as he rolled his shoulders back.

Harley continued to hang back as she watched, struggling with whether or not she should offer to help, or if she even wanted to help. He probably wouldn't bleed to death if she left him to it. He would find a way to get himself patched up on his own. When she'd been injured the night before he'd given her bourbon to help with the pain and a place to sleep, and a pain pill the following morning. It didn't seem like help at the time, but it had been, there just hadn't been any  _sympathy_ to accompany it _._  She watched him start to work his arms out of the blazer, then sighed and shrugged off her coat before skirted back to the kitchen to grab a few cat-themed tea towels.

When she returned, he'd managed to get his good arm out of the blazer and was working on the other. Harley sat gingerly beside him, unsurprised when he didn't acknowledge her as she helped him navigate the jacket over the hole in his arm. The sleeve of his shirt was soaked, and through the ripped fabric, she could see a jagged line of torn flesh on his bicep. It might have made her stomach roll on a different day, but twenty minutes earlier, Harley had watched a man get his face blown off - literally - and this was tame by comparison.

Attempting to be gentle, Harley lifted the material of his shirtsleeve away from his skin and used both hands to tear the fabric open to the wrist. He didn't flinch once, just watched her work with one eyebrow raised as she undid the two small buttons at his cuff to move the ruined shirt out of the way.

"When did this happen?" She asked, squinting at the bullet wound. Maybe  _technically_  it counted as a graze, but it had torn through the muscle from what little she could see; the fact that he was bleeding like a stuck pig made it difficult. She wasn't an expert in first aid, but she was pretty sure stopping the bleeding was number one, so she pressed the tea towel to his arm in a weak attempt to do so.

"Who knows," he grumbled, shoving her hand away so he could take over. He peered down at the wound, dabbed at it with the towel, then inspected it again with a frown. " _Fuck,"_  he muttered roughly, and abruptly rose to his feet to stomp back through to the kitchen.

Harley was left sitting on the couch staring after him, feeling out of her element and a little bit dazed. Her ears had been ringing for so long that now they'd returned to normal the quiet seemed strange and overly loud. She heard the kitchen sink run followed by a splash and an annoyed grunt and guessed he was washing his arm off in the sink. He appeared a few seconds later, dripping wet and looking subdued. He shuffled back to the couch and sat stiffly beside her, alternating between applying pressure with the tea towel and squinting at his injury suspiciously. He'd dunked his head under the sink too, washing away the dried blood, paint, and soot as best he could.

"Is that going to need stitches?" Harley asked, her nose wrinkling at the prospect of him sewing his own arm up one-handed. Messy, but probably what he had in mind.

"Grab me the remote, will ya," he said without much energy, gesturing to an old TV on the other side of the small living room.

Harley pursed her lips and watched him settle back into the corduroy folds of the couch, holding the cat-printed tea towel - which was rapidly absorbing more blood than it could carry - to his injured arm. But he seemed oblivious to it, staring at the TV set like he was trying to turn it on telekinetically instead of thinking about his arm.

Harley rose to her feet to fetch him the remote, and the old set snapped on to two overly made-up middle-aged women selling a crockpot on QVC. The Joker sank even further into the couch cushions, getting lost in their brainless sales pitch. With him suitably distracted, Harley started searching the area around the Hospice bed for medical supplies.

First, she noticed the sheets had been changed since whoever had been in the bed - presumably an older cat-loving lady - had left it, but she didn't want to dwell on that. The chances that the woman's body was somewhere nearby was more than she could handle thinking about presently. Harley was grateful that they had somewhere to hide and was happy to leave it at that.

Beneath the Hospice bed was a first aid kit the size of a toolbox. She knelt beside it to sift through its contents and found what she thought they  _might_  need; bandages, antiseptic cream, rubbing alcohol. She'd already decided she would do the stitching for him. She had a strong stomach, and the idea of helping him by hurting him appealed to her. She also liked the fact she'd saved his life - twice in one night if stitching him up counted - and it was making her feel unusually magnanimous.

"So, Hospice First Aid kits don't come with stitches," she announced, having to talk over the women selling crockpots on the TV. It was enough to get his attention. "Do you  _definitely_  need stitches?"

He dropped the bloodied towel on the floor and shifted so she could see where the bullet had ripped past his arm, then prodded the split flesh with his index finger to show her how deep it was. Rivulets of blood immediately began to stream down his arm again, and he flopped back against the cushions, snatching up a clean tea towel and holding it to his arm as he settled in to watch the crockpot women demonstrate their wares.

"Interesting way of making your point," Harley said drolly, and went in search of a bathroom. There were three doors at the end of the hall, two of them ominously locked, the third leading into a bathroom with a toilet and a standing shower outfitted with a plastic seat for a disabled or elderly person. Harley searched the medicine cabinet over the sink and turned up a sewing kit as well as a plethora of painkillers in varying strengths and doses. She gave a low whistle as she checked the labels and decided to be nice and offer him the good stuff. She took a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol for herself, popping a couple for her ribs before heading back to the living room with her finds.

She sat on the couch beside him again, dumping the bandages, creams and sewing kit down first before offering him the heavy-duty pain killers. He squinted at the label and wrinkled his nose.

"Gimme a half of that one," he instructed, and Harley obliged before she sat beside him to commence with the stitching.

"Just so you know, I nearly failed Home Economics," she informed him as she poured antiseptic alcohol over the needle and thread she'd laced, then, without much direction to go on, over his arm too. She was pretty sure keeping the wound clean was number two after 'stop the bleeding' and told him as much.

He chuckled low in his throat, his eyes still trained on the television. "You're  _funny_ ," he said, sounding tired.

Harley didn't reply, her attention focused on his arm as she spent a solid five minutes trying to clean it so she could see what she was doing. She definitely _didn't_  know what she was doing, and she really  _had_  almost failed Home Economics. Not a good start. In the end, he snapped at her to hurry it up, so she began the strange and disgusting process of sewing human flesh.

A low, restrained growl rattled through his chest when the needle pierced his skin. The sound had the strange effect of making Harley's pulse leap, and her stomach tighten. It was too similar to a noise he'd made when they'd been pawing at each other in Lonnie's bathroom, and for the stretch of quiet time that followed while Harley stitched his wound shut, she was unable to think about anything other than those five intense minutes of intense, unbridled...  _lust_.

_Shit._

"Now's probably not the best time for this," Harley said, trying to distract herself as she tied off the thread and snipped it clean. "But what are we going to do about Bertinelli getting away?"

"He'll turn up," the Joker muttered distractedly, grabbing what remained of his shirt sleeve and ripping it away. His attention returned to the TV, where the QVC women had moved on to selling French whisks.

"He recognized me," Harley said, peeling off the adhesive back off a large bandage and pressing it down over the poorly-stitched wound. She smoothed the bandage down and noticed he had a few light freckles on his shoulder, which meant at some point in his life he'd been out in the sunshine with his shirt off.

Her fingers drifted down his arm absentmindedly as she took in the details she'd never been close enough to notice before. His arms were lean and toned and lanky. There were a pair of thin, faded scars above the crook of his arm, but nothing like the bullet wound she'd just fixed for him. When she reached his elbow she noticed a large square of shiny scar tissue covering the inside of his forearm, and she let her fingertips trail across it, feeling the different texture.

"Skin grafter," he said gruffly, and Harley almost jumped out of her skin when she realized he was watching her examine him his arm. " _Excellent_  for getting a certain kinda person to talk," he continued. "Especially  _women_."

"You mean torture," Harley said, forcing herself to focus on unspooling a roll of bandages so she wouldn't keep stroking his arm. "So, did you talk?"

His eyes darted over to her, and she could see a shade of surprise there. "They weren't interested in _talkin'_ ," he said evasively.

"Did your charming personality get you in trouble?" Harley said drily, a smile creeping onto her lips as she met his eye. That private smirk she knew wasn't commonplace for him appeared again, and he chuckled throatily.

"I told you, you're  _funny,_ " he said as she wrapped the cloth bandage around his bicep and tied it off.

"I think you'll live," Harley informed him, sitting back and raking her fingers through her tangled hair. "But I'm hardly an expert, so I guess we'll see."

"I  _guess_  we'll see," he sing-songed. He was still laser-focused on the French whisks, but his eyes were hooded. "You should sleep," he recommended, his voice lower.

Harley shook her head. "I need a drink," she said, hearing the exhaustion in her voice.

 _"Meeee_  too," he agreed, and then lifted his good arm and inclined his head towards her. "C'mere."

Harley was too surprised by the simple, familiar gesture to do anything at first, but she recovered quickly and shuffled closer, feeling a little shy. She was tired and not thinking clearly, and their banter had been more relaxed than usual which might have been a hallmark of an especially stressful evening, but she was clear-headed enough to think  _this is a bad idea_ , even as she scooted close enough that their legs were touching and leaned against him.

His arm fell heavily across her shoulders, drawing her into his side, and Harley leaned into him. Her eyes closed, and she was already starting to fall asleep when he settled his chin on top of her hair, and she felt rather than heard him sigh, sounding as exhausted as she felt. She thought maybe later she would analyze this moment within an inch of its life, the comfortable, familiar touching so at odds his cruel, manipulative disposition.

Then she thought about what she'd come to realize at Arkham. That like all human beings, he was complicated and had layers. His layers were just a shade more dramatic and multifaceted than most.

As the QVC women started testing the French whisks, competing for top prize, Harley drifted off to sleep.

* * *

**A/N: I love this one too.**

**Next: Harley is given her first job and makes some new friends.**

**Please review. I live for the feedback.**


	14. Chapter 14

The Harlequin

14.

* * *

Mickey Sullivan slammed his fist down on Penguin's desk, rattling the paperweights.

"I won't stand for this, ye hear meh!" He snarled, spittle flying from his thin lips.

Penguin laced his hands together and forced a simpering smile. It was past dawn, and the Iceberg Lounge had only just closed its doors. Penguin wanted to have a large glass of brandy and make his way to bed, not to deal with a feral Irish mob boss who was losing control of his people. Luckily, Penguin was saved from having to address it himself.

" _Mr_  Sullivan," Sofia Falcone reproached. She was perched on one of the armchairs facing Penguin's chair, her designer suit perfectly pressed despite the late hour. "Please. Sit down, and we will talk this out."

"Where the fuck's Yuri, huh?" Sullivan spat but lowered himself into the other chair all the same. "That fuckin' Russki is a damned snake!"

"The Russians are cockroaches," Penguin placated, dicing Mickey with a pointed look. "But they can be trusted. Maroni brought them into the fold, and they aren't going anywhere just because the Joker has an insane vendetta against what remains of the Cosa Nostra." He nodded to Sofia. "Present company excluded, of course."

"Please," Sofia purred, examining her talon-like nails. "I may be Italian, but I am hardly one of those... thugs."

"Listen," Mickey rubbed his nose and sat forward, using his hands to gesture as he addressed them with more restraint. "We need to decide wot the bleedin' fook we're gonna do to stop the Joker gettin' to Sal. He killed ten of my fookin' men  _on his own_  to get to Franco, and Franco only made it away from that freak by sheer luck."

"Oh, Mickey," Sofia sighed drolly, "You are a tedious lapdog."

"Wot the fook did you just-" Mickey started for his feet, his face turning purple with rage, but Penguin hushed them both.

"She's right," he snapped. "Mickey, your men couldn't do their jobs properly, but that's not our problem. Sal's dealt with the Joker personally before. He knows to stay away long enough for the Batman to take him out. For now, do as you're told and keep Franco safe. And for God's sake will you both please lay off your damn  _merchandise._  This is Gotham, not Columbia."

Micky snarled. "So you're the boss now, is that it Ozzie? Sal and Franco are in hiding, so you're calling the shots?"

Penguin spread his arms impatiently. "Perhaps I am. Now, you'll have to excuse me. I have some real work to take care of."

As Mickey stormed out of the office, Sofia remained, eyeing Penguin thoughtfully.

"You've got some balls," she said appraisingly, rising slowly to her feet.

"Excuse me?" Penguin snapped, his intestines twisting nervously as Sofia shouldered her designer bag and lifted one perfectly arched eyebrow.

"I think you just made your case for taking over as Kingpin," she said lightly, turning to leave. She looked over her shoulder at the last moment, her red lips curving into a secretive smile. "Ciao, Oswald."

* * *

Even with all the lights on and the TV droning all night long, Harley slept like the dead. She woke up to an enthusiastic man on QVC shouting about stain remover, and after gathering the strength to look, she lifted her head off the Joker's shoulder and peered sleepily around the brightly lit room. Her body was aching after the events of the night before, but her ribs weren't hurting as badly as they had the previous morning, which was a small relief.

She craned her head around to see out the window, and through the heavy drapes, she could tell that the sun had risen. Her attention drifted to the Joker who was still sleeping, his face relaxed and his chest rising and falling with his steady breathing. Harley shrugged off his arm and climbed to her feet, then headed for the bathroom.

She frowned at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. The black eye had faded to dark pink, her skin was sallow, and her hair was getting too long. She usually kept it in a blunt, professional cut that hit her shoulders and was easy to tie back. Now it was fell well below her collar in a matted collection of snarls and tangles. She considered grabbing some scissors from the kitchen and hacking it off, but that seemed... dramatic. Instead, she parted it down the center and made two braids that she threaded together milk-maid style around the crown of her head.

She ran the hot tap and washed her face as best she could with water. Beneath her dress, her body was sticky with sweat, and she would have  _killed_  for a shower, but the house gave her the creeps, and she wasn't especially eager to spend any more time there than was necessary.

Harley had no idea what the day held in store for her. She reasoned there would be some element of tracking down Bertinelli or Maroni, but there could also be 'errands' to run. Something she needed relatively urgently was new underwear, but she couldn't envision a world where the Joker would take her to a TJ Max to pick up a pack of Fruit of the Loom. She wouldn't have been opposed to a toothbrush either; it had been a  _long_  time since she'd last brushed her teeth and her mouth was starting to taste like a gutter.

She returned to the living room to find the Joker still passed out on the couch. His body must have experienced some element of physical shock after being shot, even if he managed to shake it off and convince himself otherwise. The living room wasn't the most sterile environment for minor surgery, so Harley braced one knee on the couch beside him and laid the back of her hand on his forehead, judging his skin to be hot but not feverish.

His eyes snapped open, and his hand flew up to close around her wrist, startling her. She saw recognition dawn on his face and waited for him to do something aside from stare at her, and after a few long seconds he released her wrist and sat up fully, rubbing his hands over his face to massage away sleep before rolling his head right and left until the joints cracked noisily.

"Let's get out of here," Harley insisted, watching him shake himself awake. "This place is creepy."

"Uh huh," he agreed mildly and pushed her out of his way so he could stand. He stretched again and squinted down at his arm, then disappeared down the hall to the bathroom without closing the door.

Harley heard the toilet seat bang up followed by the sound of a zipper sliding down, and she felt a voyeuristic shiver of pleasure as she listened to him relieve himself in the other room. She scrubbed a hand over her face, feeling ridiculous, and started organizing herself to leave.

The Joker reappeared, looking bizarre with one shirt sleeve missing as he palmed his jaw, feeling the stubble that was coming through after a few days without shaving. Harley estimated he was on day three from what she could see, which she realized belatedly was a very personal thing to know about him. She rationalized that she only knew because he got a shave every five days at Arkham, and she'd sat across from him every day for a month, studying him carefully. That she'd been studying his beard growth was perhaps a slightly strange thing to realize. It felt...  _intimate._

They pulled on their coats in silence, the Joker shoving his injured arm into the ruined jacket as if he couldn't feel it, then left silently through the front door.

The sun was only just rising outside as they walked around the house to an old garage which wasn't locked, and opened it with minimal effort. Inside was a boxy, powder blue Mercedes that must have been at least thirty years old, parked amongst lawn furniture and gardening supplies. Still operating in silence, the Joker gave Harley a little shove toward the driver's side to indicate she would be taking the wheel. There was a pair of keys resting on the dash, so Harley started the car and watched him lower the passenger seat back until it was almost horizontal before he collapsed onto it with his usual theatrical flourish.

"Where to?" Harley asked, the first question she'd posed out loud despite her many, many...  _many_  questions.

He thrust his hand into his coat and produced the dark sunglasses he'd been wearing the day before, and shoved them into her hands.

"Downtown," he said gruffly, his attention already on an iPhone Harley hadn't seen him use before.

She wanted to ask if it was safe to use a smartphone when the Batman had tracked hers, but he didn't appear to be in a very chatty mood, so she popped on his sunglasses and pulled the old Mercedes out onto the street, doing her best to find the freeway which included getting lost a handful of times. The Joker seemed oblivious to her, his attention either on the phone in his hand or the ceiling aside from when he felt the need to comment on her driving.

"Ya know, they'll pull you over for going too _slow_ ," he drawled disdainfully, his eyes on the phone. "You're supposed to aim for  _inconspicuous_."

"Your strong suit," Harley retorted drily. "It's an old lady car. I'll drive like an old lady."

He snorted derisively and returned to whatever business he was doing on the phone.

The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable; in fact, it was remarkably companionable. Harley felt like they'd reached some kind of mutual understanding even if she wasn't sure what exactly that was. She'd adapted to the circumstances around her as she needed to, mostly bluffing her way through things just as she'd always done. She was willing to bet he'd taken a few hostages or prisoners in his time, but he seemed happy to let her dictate the terms of her situation instead of making her play the victim. Trying to make the case she was his victim and not his accomplice was getting harder with every hour that passed in his company.

It had been less than two days, but to Harley, it felt like a fucking lifetime had passed since she'd fled her apartment.

When they arrived Downtown, he gave her rough directions that had Harley squinting out the windshield, trying to make out street names. He had her park at the curb when they reached a nice-for-the-area street of older townhouses.

Harley turned off the engine and watched the Joker crank his seat up to sitting then scooted it back for maximum legroom. As he worked, she caught a glimpse of the iPhone screen and was incredibly amused to see he'd been scrolling through a google image search of the Batman. Before she had a chance to rib him about it he cleared his throat and opened the car door, then without a word of farewell or acknowledgment, he hopped out of the car and loped off down the street.

Bewildered, Harley turned to watch him disappear through the back window and considered jumping out to follow him, but then the passenger door opened and a tree-trunk sized man folded himself in half to squeeze into the car.

"Hey, Harley," Bruno said with a crooked, almost embarrassed smile. He came bearing a tray with two styrofoam cups of coffee and a white bag dripping grease.

"Um, hi," Harley said slowly, watching the grease spots on the bag grow larger as she tried not to feel indignant about the fact she was being _handed off_  to Bruno.

"I gotta job to do and thought you might wanna help," Bruno said, handing her a coffee and the greasy bag.

"Oh, really?" Harley deadpanned, taking the bag, which contained an assortment of bacon-centric breakfast foods. She was initially repelled but having not eaten anything since the doughnuts in the park the afternoon before she wasn't in any shape to decline food.

"Sure," Bruno said evasively, his gaze on one of the townhouses across the street. Harley munched on a bacon roll as she watched Bruno watch the house, and after about thirty seconds the front door of the townhouse swung open, and a young man stepped out. "There he is," said Bruno. "That's Freddi Maroni's driver."

" _Freddi_  Maroni?" Harley asked, squinting at the man trotting down the front steps of the townhouse. He was skinny with a thick head of dark hair, and his suit was of the trendy slim-fit variety. He headed for a town car parked on the street, and as he opened the driver's side door, he popped a chauffer's hat on his head.

"Freddi is Maroni's a bastard," Bruno explained, his unwavering gaze still on the car. "Kinda the black sheep of the family. Drug problems, money problems. That driver there is his handler, keeps him outta trouble."

"Okay," Harley said blankly. "So what's the plan? We torture them until they tell us where Maroni is? I hear skin grafters are good for getting people to talk if you can get your hands on one."

"They ain't gonna know where Maroni's hiding out," Bruno frowned. "Freddi's a liability."

"So what's the point in the driver?" Harley frowned, starting on a second bacon roll. "Driver gets you to Freddi, Freddi doesn't know anything. What's the point?"

"Maybe they know something they don't  _realize_  they know," Bruno explained, shooting her a significant look. "We gotta follow em' for a while to find out."

Freddi Maroni's driver pulled away from the curb and onto the street, and Harley hastily started the old Mercedes' engine and followed.

"Stay two cars behind him," Bruno advised. "And always keep in mind that ya gotta be looking for someone two cars behind ya too."

Harley frowned, feeling even more out of the loop than usual but tailed the town car anyway, keeping two car lengths between it as instructed.

"So, how you holdin' up?" Bruno asked lightly like he was trying not to pry or knew he shouldn't be asking.

"How am I holding up?" Harley laughed and flicked on her blinker as they headed Uptown. "Well, after I last saw you, I was in a major car accident, that's how I got this great black eye and some bruised ribs. Then I spent a good half hour running around Chinatown in the rain to escape the Batman. Next, I was dragged back and forth across Gotham for a full day before being taken to a place called  _The Murder Dock,_  where I shot a man in the back. Then I was in another - what did you call it? - a  _firefight_. And after  _that,_  I got to stitch a gunshot wound closed, which was both disgusting and terrifying."

"Eventful," Bruno observed.

"You could say that," Harley replied flatly, taking a sip of her coffee.

The town car headed Uptown to one of the more expensive neighborhoods, stopping in front of a townhouse with white trim and roses climbing up its side. Bruno directed Harley to park a short distance away from where they could still see the front of the building and the town car, explaining what they were looking for and how to avoid being seen as they waited for the driver to appear again.

Half an hour passed and Harley was steadily growing antsier sitting in a car waiting for the driver to reappear. She drank her coffee and ate another bacon roll and used her thumbnail to push her cuticles back, desperate for something more to do. Another half an hour passed, and she wasn't able to contain herself any longer.

"So how long have you known the Joker?" She asked, trying for nonchalant.

Bruno glanced at her briefly before returning his attention to the driver's car. "You don't really think I'd answer that, do ya?"

"Well, I would say you've known him a long time," Harley needled. Of all the things she was curious about, Bruno's relationship to the Joker was toward the bottom of the list, but it was still compelling. "Maybe before the scars?"

"Careful," Bruno warned, a little more seriously. "You know you shouldn't be asking questions like that."

"Ah, I see," Harley smirked. "You know what happened to him, don't you? And that would ruin the mystery."

Bruno didn't say anything, but his mouth tightened, and Harley knew she was on the right path. If she  _wanted_  to, she had no doubt she could get answers out of Bruno even if he was unwilling to give them. But Bruno had always been kind to her, and she felt a little guilty taking advantage. It was remarkable what did and did not bother her conscience these days.

"You know he tells everyone a different story," she said, instead of pursuing her previous line of questioning. "About his mother being a sadistic drunk or his father being in debt to the mob or his wife getting her face cut, so he does his just like hers." She frowned. "I don't buy it."

"No?" Bruno asked, apparently more comfortable with  _theoretical_  conversations about the Joker.

"No," Harley confirmed. " _Definitely_  no wife, and whatever happened to his mother and father, he didn't have a relationship with them. That  _lack_  of a relationship will have affected him more than any kind of a traumatic event with them."

"How do you figure that?" Bruno's interest was obviously piqued.

"People with mommy or daddy issues, their neurosis manifests itself in different ways," Harley explained. "Usually sexual deviancy or a debilitating need for validation, sometimes sadistic impulses they can't control are in the mix too. He doesn't show any of those things."

"You sure about that?" Bruno lifted an amused eyebrow, making Harle chuckle.

"He can be sadistic, and he can definitely  _enjoy_  being sadistic, but he doesn't _need_  to be sadistic," she explained. "He's in control of his urges and impulses. Therefore, he's not insane, and when you remove sexual deviancy and need for validation from the equation, you can conclude there was no parental trauma. Just a vast lack of empathy, probably because he's missing a lot of gray matter in his prefrontal cortex, though it could have been learned too. Probably both," she shrugged.

Bruno frowned. "Did you write any of this down when you were at Arkham?"

"Some of it," Harley admitted. "Mostly, I wrote about the rarity of genuine psychopaths, but he is one, and no one would have second-guessed that."

"What makes him a psychopath?" Bruno asked reluctantly, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"A complete lack of empathy and remorse, charming when he wants to be, highly intelligent with extreme anti-social tendencies," Harley said, ticking them off on her fingers. " _Incredibly_  narcissistic, and of course, manipulative." She shook her head. "What he did to Harvey Dent was...  _extreme_."

"Whaddya mean what he did to Dent?" Bruno frowned.

"I mean when he..." Harley trailed off, realizing that Bruno had no idea that Harvey Dent had gone on a murderous rampage after he and the Joker had their little tete-a-tete. Bruno thought the Batman had killed Dent, just like the rest of Gotham, or at least the rest of Gotham aside from Harley, Gordon and the Batman. She swallowed a little lump that formed in her throat, feeling it was quite...  _significant_  that she had been let in on this secret.

 _You make such... fascinating choices,_  he'd purred in her office that night of the breakout.

Like she was an experiment; pushing her buttons to see what twisted results he could get.

Could that still be what was going on? Every choice she'd made since he broke out of Arkham - letting her go to see if she'd talk, giving her the phone so she could connect with him, Walsh, Nash, Cassamento, Inzerillo, Bertinelli... the kiss in the kitchen, that moment in the bathroom... all of it, just a game to watch her make  _fascinating_  choices for his amusement?

Harley felt sick. She had been so consumed with not letting herself be manipulated into _acting_ , that she hadn't considered that the game around her had been rigged.

She could feel Bruno looking at her out of the corner of his eye, maybe seeing the self-loathing creeping into her expression. She didn't care, though. If this had all been nothing more than a game she'd not realized she was playing, then she would play her way out of it now. She would get out from under the Joker's thumb and find her own way forward. It would just have to happen quicker than she'd planned for.

The driver reappeared, alone, and climbed back into the town car, and Harley pulled away from the curb to follow him again, her mouth set in a determined line. Keeping two car lengths between them, she tailed the car onto the freeway and silently followed Bruno's directions for sticking behind other cars and staying inconspicuous so the driver wouldn't notice them. Twenty minutes later the driver took the exit for the Narrows, and Harley ground her teeth together anxiously as they crossed the Narrows Bridge and began winding through the derelict streets that had once been her stomping grounds.

Luckily the driver led them in the opposite direction of Arkham, parking in front of a decades-old public housing block, one of a few reminders that at one time, long ago, Gotham's City Council had tried to clean up the Narrows before abandoning it altogether.

She watched the driver disappear into the projects and licked her lips thoughtfully.

"So Freddi Maroni's a heroin addict," she said out loud, the first words she'd spoken since they left Uptown.

"Chinese heroin," Bruno corrected.

"What's the difference?" Harley frowned.

"The Chinese gangs import the smack from Asia, and the Russians bring it in from South America," Bruno explained. "The Chinese stuff is way purer so most of the junkies - and you probably know Gotham as a lot of em' - want their stuff instead of the Russian stuff. That means those two don't get along so well."

"So there's a gang war over heroin," Harley nodded. "Where does Freddi fit into all this?"

"He doesn't," Bruno replied thinly. "The Russians made a deal with Maroni after Falcone got put away. Sal doesn't want Freddi near any of it, but that's a junkie for you."

Harley chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. She had never really thought about  _where_  the drugs in Gotham came from even though their prevalence was obvious.

"What about other drugs?" She asked. "Heroin is all over the Eastside and the Narrows, but that's not the case Uptown."

Bruno sighed and rubbed his neck. "Russians," he said. "They bring the coke in from South America too. The Chinese wanna get in on that, so they make problems and..."

"And so they're constantly at war over who's controlling the drug flow into Gotham," Harley finished for him. "Got it."

The driver reappeared with a brown paper bag in hand and practically sprinted to his car. After letting him get a head start Harley followed him over the Narrows Bridge and onto the freeway, then back Uptown to Freddi Maroni's apartment. He disappeared inside for a solid two hours while Bruno and Harley waited. Bruno was apparently happy to sit in silence, while Harley coped with her boredom by indulging in a slew of paranoid fantasies about how she'd been played for a fool by the Joker.

Eventually, the driver appeared again, this time heading for the Mega Mart in Otisburg. Harley and Bruno followed him there, waited, and watched him come out of the store with a brown paper bag full of fresh produce.

So he bought the heroin  _and_  the groceries.

Back Uptown, Harley found herself struggling not to engage Bruno in another conversation about the Joker, the last shreds of her dignity keeping her from doing so. After an hour of sitting in silence, Bruno went in search of a hot dog vendor for lunch. They made idle small talk while they ate before lapsing into silence again, and Harley spent the hours that passed dozing and contemplating her situation.

The more she thought about it, the more it made sense she was getting dragged through hell for the Joker's amusement. It sounded paranoid, but it was entirely in character for him.

Why hadn't he killed her when she knew too much? What was he waiting for? Why was she being kept around? Did she even  _care_  so long as she was kept alive?

Living only to be kept alive was genuinely depressing. More appealing was finding Maroni herself and switching sides. Or she could go to the media or leave Gotham completely.

She _needed_  to find a way to take back control of her life.

More time passed, and eventually, Bruno was hungry again. He went in search of pizza, which Harley ate despite feeling like she was developing the diet of an overindulged six-year-old. She was mentally exhausted from a day of doing little else but sitting with her thoughts, and even a little depressed if she was honest with herself. Finally, around ten o'clock, the driver reappeared and drove back Downtown. Harley was hoping against hope that this would be the last of it, that he was going home and she could get some sleep somewhere. She assumed Bruno would be helping her with that too, sensing he wouldn't leave her out on the street to fend for herself.

He seemed to believe she couldn't fend for herself anyway, which just made Harley more determined to do something about her situation.

Instead of going home, the driver stopped in front of a dive bar with a blinking neon sign suggesting it was called Ray's. Harley guessed this was some form of decompression time for him to take stock of his day, maybe reflect on the fact he provided both heroin and kale to Freddi Maroni. Perhaps he was having a beer and trying to decide how he would be judged when he died.

Finally, an hour and a half later, the driver left the bar and drove home, and Harley sighed out loud, relieved the day was over.

"Let's head to Grin's," Bruno said.

" _What?_ " Harley demanded, scandalized. Again: interesting what scandalized her these days.

"Marty's got a room for ya," Bruno explained patiently. "It's a safe place for you to lay low, and he's a good guy."

"A good guy who runs a brothel," Harley scoffed, reluctantly turning the car in the direction of the Cauldron.

"He treats his girls right," Bruno insisted. "And you should know better than anyone that a person's job don't dictate what kinda person they are."

"If you decide to open a brothel, that's a good sign of your character," Harley replied sagely.

"Your pal Jonathan Crane was a big shot psychologist - don't that mean he's supposed to wanna help people?" Bruno fired back, sounding offended. "But underneath it, he was a piece of shit. Or Thomas Elliot? He's a millionaire neurosurgeon, but his company makes drugs for people to get addicted to."

Harley couldn't argue with that. "You might be right," she agreed weakly. "But Jonathan is  _not_  my pal, and I'm pretty sure Thomas Elliot has nothing to do with his father's company."

"God, you're a know-it-all," Bruno chuckled.

"Yeah, well," Harley shrugged. "That's what happens when they give you a PhD."

"Sounds real fancy," Bruno remarked drily, making Harley laugh quietly.

It took just under half an hour to get to Grin's, and neither of them spoke again. Harley sank back into her self-loathing spiral of hatred for the Joker and her role as his entertaining puppet.

"He likes you, you know," Bruno observed as Harley parked in the gravel lot alongside Grin's and turned the car off.

 _"What_?" She snapped, whipping around to face him, her eyes narrowing even as she felt something  _thrilled_  wiggle inside her.

"You're right, I have known him a long time," Bruno continued cautiously. "To J, most people are background noise. He hardly sees em'. Then there's a few people he keeps around cause he needs em', like me and Lonnie and Marty. He's usin' us really, but we stick with him, anyway. Maybe we're the crazy ones."

Harley's mouth tightened into a grim line, not sure where she fit into this assessment.

"But he don't normally  _like_  people," Bruno said pensively. "Not till the Batman showed up."

Harley couldn't help but laugh at that, knowing  _exactly_  what Bruno meant. She shook her head, wishing all of this wasn't so damned  _hard._

"And now there's you," Bruno finished. "And Harley, you don't wear a mask. You're just you."

His words immediately banished her reluctant smile, and she could feel herself shrivel inwards at the insinuation she was somehow  _special_. She refused to entertain what Bruno was suggesting. It was weak and indulgent when she needed to be strong and on her guard. What he was suggesting was  _dangerous_ and delusional, especially after what had transpired in Lonnie's bathroom the night before.

She kept her eyes trained on the wall of the club, refusing to acknowledge what Bruno said, and eventually, he got out of the car.

"You think you can follow the driver for me tomorrow?" Bruno asked, bending to look at her through the window.

Harley nodded slowly and gave Bruno a short wave as he disappeared from her peripheral vision, leaving her alone in the dimly lit lot.

She sighed, feeling the metaphor 'the weight of the world' was truly accurate at that moment, and slipped out of the Mercedes before crunching through the gravel toward the entrance of Grin and Bare It.

The club was as depressing as it had been the last time she'd been there. Drunk men were slumped over the side of the stage while girls danced apathetically to a warbly pop song about a wrecking ball. Marty, the stocky bartender who owned the place, was behind the bar again, alternating between polishing glasses and drinking a beer. Harley approached warily, reminding herself that this man was doing her a favor even if every lesson she'd learned as a young woman in a dangerous world told her he would want more than her gratitude.

"Harley, right?" Marty greeted her, his accent suggesting he was the product of a predominantly Irish east coast background. "Or do I call ya Doc?"

"Harley's fine," she replied with a weak smile as she stepped up to the bar.

"Can I get ya a drink, Harley?"

"No, thanks," Harley replied. "I'm uh, kind of tired."

"I bet ya are," he shot her a cheeky smile as he popped open the register and retrieved a set of keys. "Through them curtains and upstairs there," he said, passing Harley the keys as he nodded to a set of heavy scarlet curtains fringed with gold tassels at the end of the bar. "Third door on yer left. There's a shower at the end of the hall."

"Thanks," Harley said, trying not to let her repugnance show as she took the keys and headed in the direction he'd pointed her.

Through the curtains, she found a flight of stairs flanked by two booths she supposed must have been reserved for private dances. Harley sighed and started up the stairs, reminding herself of how the last two nights had gone. Car accident, bruised ribs, shoot out, DIY surgery. Today she'd avoided getting chased, which was a step in the right direction. She'd also avoided murdering anyone.

There was a narrow hallway at the top of the stairs with patchy red carpet and peeling damask wallpaper. Harley could hear a bed creaking in the first room she passed, the sound of heavy breathing behind the door making her cringe.

The room Marty designated for her was far enough along the hall that she wouldn't have to hear people fornicating a few doors down. It was small and clean enough though it stank of old tobacco and heavy incense. There was a double bed in the corner and a low chest of drawers outfitted with a beaded lamp that really tied the whole house of ill repute scheme together. The window was framed by the same gold-fringed velvet curtains that covered the private dance booths, and when Harley looked outside the window, she was pleased to find a fire escape on the other side - just in case she needed to make a quick escape.

She unzipped her boots and clicked off the light, then lowered herself onto the bed, its sticky bedspread making her lip curl as she laid down fully clothed and pillowed her head on her arm. Exhaustion quickly caught up with her, and she pulled her coat tighter around her as her eyes closed. She sighed into her arm, and for the first time in as long as she could remember, Harley felt the cold sting of loneliness so acutely it almost hurt.

* * *

The next morning it was pouring rain outside, and Harley woke up shivering from the cold seeping through the single-paned window. She felt better rested than she had in days, even though her ribs were still hurting, but she had grown used to the constant pain and could live with it. Was she in a brothel? Yes. Were things looking up? Kind of. She at least had a bed to sleep in, although for how long, she didn't know.

Lingering wasn't an option, so she slid off the bed and pulled on her boots. She could have done with a shower and a new set of clothes, but instead, she simply re-tied the milk-maid braids circling the crown of her head and shoved on the Joker's sunglasses, then climbed down the fire escape.

As she drove Downtown, she tried to decide which elements of her situation she could control. She had a car, a gun, a place to sleep, and just enough knowledge of Gotham's underworld politics to start working toward a  _better_  situation. A safe house of her own was next on the list, as was acquiring more clothes and personal belongings, and most importantly,  _information_. Data was what Harley needed more than anything.

She pulled up out front of the driver's apartment just before 9 AM and made a bet with herself that the driver would come out at 9 on the dot. If he came out, she would go to a cafe and treat herself to breakfast, even if the idea of showing her face in public made her extremely anxious. At 9 he appeared, skipping down the steps to the town car parked out front, and Harley smirked happily to herself over her small victory.

"Hello, avocado toast," she grinned, pulling away from the curb a few minutes after the driver left.

Once they were Uptown, the driver parked in the exact same space out front of Freddi Maroni's building as he had the day before. Harley watched him dodge down the street into a bistro on the corner and appear a few minutes later with two huge green juices in plastic cups.

After half an hour of psyching herself up and concluding that if she couldn't even buy herself a damn coffee life wasn't worth living, Harley climbed out of the car and strolled as casually as possible up the street to the bistro on the corner. She kept her sunglasses on as she ordered an almost-healthy breakfast that had her mouth watering after three days of fast food. On her way out of the bistro she grabbed an abandoned copy of the Gotham Gazette, not noticing until she was back in the car that her picture was printed across the front page.

_EXCLUSIVE: MCU LIES ABOUT ARKHAM DOCTOR'S ABDUCTION_

"Shit," she muttered as she began reading. It was the same story Vicki Vale had been peddling all week; that she had sources inside the MCU telling her Harley was a suspect in Walsh's murder, not a missing person. Vale could theorize all she wanted; until Gordon came out and told the truth, there was no proving Harley was anything more than another victim of the Joker.

Harley read the paper from cover to cover as she waited for the driver to reappear. Three hours later, after she'd finished the Gazette's crossword and sudoku puzzles and took to playing I Spy with herself, he finally did, carrying a garment bag over one shoulder as he slid into the town car.

He was running errands; dropping off dry cleaning, picking up prescriptions from a pharmacy, ducking into a hardware store for a bag full of paint supplies, and stopping by another cafe to get himself a coffee before returning to Freddi Maroni's building and disappearing inside. Harley parked in the same spot she had before and waited.

The rest of the day was painfully dull, giving Harley little to do but speculate wildly on the driver's motivations. Shopping for produce the day before, buying green juice from the cafe. It wasn't much to go one, but it was just enough to make her think he cared, and that was a far more substantial motivation than cold hard cash.

Around 7 PM the driver appeared again and jumped in the town car looking like he was on a more serious mission than dry cleaning and the hardware store. Harley followed less closely than she had before, trying to keep two or three cars between them as Bruno had instructed and soon found herself in Chinatown again, just a few blocks away from the apartment the Joker had taken her to. The driver parked and headed for a restaurant called the Good Luck Happy House and, after wavering for a few minutes, Harley followed him in to order some food for herself, hoping the sheer ballsiness of showing her face would protect her.

Unsurprisingly, he returned to Freddi's building and carried the food inside, and Harley huffed in exasperation as she settled in to wait again. She nibbled on an egg roll as she fantasized about what could be going on in that apartment. Maybe the driver was force-feeding Freddi Maroni, or maybe he'd been sent out on the demand of an entitled asshole. Both were plausible, but Harley needed more data.

At ten the driver's shift ended, and he dragged himself back to the car. He looked tired as he threw his hat in and then threw himself behind the wheel, and Harley sensed maybe there had been a fight or a disagreement upstairs. Perhaps an argument he would never win no matter how many times he had it.

Just as he had the night before, he drove to the dive bar Downtown and parked on the street outside. Just as he had the night before, he spent an hour and a half inside then returned to his car looking sober and unhappy, and drove home.

Harley pursed her lips as she watched him jog up the front steps of his building, trying to picture the scenario she'd need to create to find out where Maroni was hiding using the driver and his bastard drug addict charge. She didn't have much to go on yet, but it was still something she could cultivate on her own.

With this in mind, Harley returned to Grin and Bare It, determined to be more open to the prospect of friendship with Marty O'Riley. He knew the Joker and Bruno well enough to do them favors, and Bruno had included him on the short list of people who were useful enough to keep around, which made him worth her time. She grabbed the Chinese food and crunched through the gravel parking lot toward the club's entrance, nodding briefly to the bouncer on duty who looked bewildered by her presence.

Two girls were dancing to a bouncy pop song about getting paid and Marty was behind the bar, polishing glasses and nursing a beer. Harley slid onto a barstool and dropped the takeout on the bar before offering him a smile.

"Hi," she greeted him cheerfully.

"Alright, Harley?" Marty replied, an amused gleam in his eye. "Get you a drink?"

"A gin and tonic please," Harley requested politely, then gestured to the bag of takeout. "Do you mind if I eat here? I've got enough to share if you like?"

"Do what you like, love," he said smoothly, pouring a considerable measure of gin and a small splash of tonic into a glass and pushing it toward her. "You seem more friendly tonight," he observed.

"I've had a difficult few days," she conceded, shooting him a knowing look. "I'm sure you've been filled in."

Marty folded his arms over his chest and cocked his head to the side, and he looked like he was about to speak when a high girlish voice cut him off.

" _Gawd,_  Marty _!_ Ya know I don't like to tattle but Violet's doin' blow in the dressin' room again!" A slim girl with tight blonde ringlets dyed pink at the ends flopped onto the barstool beside Harley. She was wearing a red sequined bikini top and high cut denim shorts. "Ya  _gotta_  tell Buddy to stop offerin' the girls bumps."

Marty sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward like he was praying for guidance. "I'll have a word with him, Roxy, don't you worry."

"Good," Roxy sniffed imperiously then noticed Harley for the first time. "Oh, wow! You're Harley ain't ya? Marty told us what happened to you.  _Gosh_ , I'm sorry. Gotham cops are crooked as hell. Everyone knows that! Don't worry though, no one in here trusts the cops, so they ain't gonna tell. Ooh! I  _love_  your boots!"

"Um, thanks," Harley found herself smiling. "Egg roll?"

"Aw, thanks, Harley, that'd be swell, but I gotta go dance," she slapped both hands over her flat stomach like she was too full. "But save me one for later!"

"Okay," Harley chuckled, watching Roxy prance off to the stage. "She seems nice," she glanced back at Marty who was watching her with a strange blend of suspicion and amusement.

"Roxy's a good girl," Marty said affectionately. "She's training to be a hairdresser."

"That's great," Harley smiled, watching Roxy leap onto one of the stage poles as the opening bars of a Blondie track echoed around the club.

"Why dontcha tell me about yourself, Harley," Marty encouraged, cracking open another beer for himself.

"Oh, there's not much to tell," Harley said slyly, taking a sip of her drink.

"Seems you've got an interestin' story to tell," Marty pushed, puffing out his chest. "And my job as a barman is to listen to interestin' stories."

"Things aren't normally what they seem," Harley replied evasively and gestured around the room. "Take this place. It  _seems_  to be a house of ill repute, but _apparently,_  you're a nice man who likes to listen and the girls that work here have plans to become hairdressers."

"Ah, I see," Marty nodded. "Bruno tell you I'm a nice man?"

Harley shrugged evasively.

"You're a smart one, aren't ya," Marty grinned, something a little bit dangerous glimmering in his watery blue eyes. "Most wouldn't say I'm a nice man. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't hurt a hair on any of these girls' heads, but that don't make me a fluffy bunny."

Harley cocked her head to the side, pleased that she'd managed to get him to talk. "Why's that?"

Marty eyed her warily, and Harley sensed he was weighing up what he wanted to say and what he knew he should keep to himself.

"You ever heard of the Belfast Guild?"

"I don't think so," Harley said, feigning thoughtfulness.

"See, it's always been hard for immigrants in Gotham," Marty said, hunkering forward over the bar like he was settling in for a long story. "It was true two hundred years ago when the Crownes and the Waynes founded Gotham, and it's true today. So what happened to those poor unfortunate souls who fell through the cracks? They had to fend for themselves, didn't they? They formed gangs and guilds and built things for themselves and their families. Maybe not goddamn skyscrapers with their names on it, but on the streets, their names mean more than those bastards in their glass castles ever will."

Harley absentmindedly drained the last of her drink through its straw, fascinated by Marty's story about Gotham's immigrants turning to organized crime.

"Some of those families are here today, the Falcones and the Cassamentos," he continued, topping up her glass with another large measure of gin and a splash of tonic. "Italians have it in their blood to pull the strings of power, they've been doin' it for over a hundred years in Gotham and longer than that back in their home country. And ya know, for  _decades_  the O'Riley's were Gotham's master assassins."

Harley choked on her drink. " _Assassins?"_

"Aye," Marty nodded. "Me pa was the Belfast Guild's leader, and I woulda carried it on if it weren't for those fuckin' Italians."

"So, the Guild is gone, and now you're here?" Harley asked, trying to understand why a Guild of so-called master assassins had been shut down by the mob.

"Aye. So now I'm here," Marty drained the rest of his beer, looking sour as he dropped the empty bottle on the bar. "At the bottom of the fuckin' food chain. Don't get me wrong. It ain't so bad. We got the club, and we get a decent bit of cash from selling coke, but the Italians make sure we've never got more than what they want us to have. I'd rather be at war than kept down and fed scraps like a fuckin' dog."

"I don't understand," Harley frowned. "What's the point in controlling your business?"

"That's what happens after a war," Marty shrugged, opening another beer. "After you win, you rape, and you pillage, and you rule over the poor fuckers you conquered. And the Sullivan boys are some of the cruelest motherfuckers I know."

"The Sullivans," Harley said the name thoughtfully, remembering the red-haired men who'd been protecting Bertinelli. "Is that this Irish Mob I keep hearing about?"

"Irish mob, ha!" Marty threw his head back and laughed at the ceiling. "Sullivans are nothing but savage bootlickers. They climbed into Carmine Falcone's lap, and now they're doing the same for Maroni. They don't contribute  _nothing._  They deal the drugs they're given, they kill the men they're told to kill, and they protect the ones they're told to protect. It makes me fuckin' sick!" Marty slammed his new bottle down on the bar top, beer foaming up the neck and down over his hand.

"Jesus," Harley said, watching Marty wipe up the beer with a dirty rag as she pulled together the pieces of his story. Marty's family's business had been destroyed by a rival family, the Sullivans, who had the backing of the mob. And now Marty's family - or was gang more appropriate? - was being purposefully kept at the bottom of the ladder - not destroyed, just  _kept down._

And then something else occurred to her.

"So who's coke do you sell?" She asked lightly.

"Eh?" Marty frowned at her, still trying to mop up the beer.

"I said who's coke do you sell," Harley repeated. "The Russians control the coke, and they've got a deal with Maroni. How do you get it?"

Stunned might have adequately described the look on Marty's face as he absorbed what she was asking. He cleared his throat and glanced around the club, looking like he was going to reply when Roxy reappeared, sweaty and tying her bikini back on. Harley was glad for the interruption, not wanting to push Marty too hard in one sitting, but she knew there was something there.

"That was really good!" Harley grinned at Roxy. "You must train hard."

"Every night!" Roxy shrugged happily. "I know the guys are starin' at my boobs, but when I'm dancing I get to be creative, ya know?"

"I know exactly what you mean," Harley nodded. "I used to be a gymnast."

"Oh yeah!" Roxy beamed. "That's great! Why dontcha do it anymore?"

"I still train, but they said I'm too tall to do it professionally," Harley shrugged. "I  _really_  miss training. I'd kill for a decent workout."

"We got a boxing club just up the road," Marty piped up, obviously eavesdropping. "The boys work out there when they're not hungover or bleedin' out."

"You do?" Harley's eyes widened, feeling real gratitude for Marty.

"Sure," he nodded. "Just tell Ralphie in the grocery store, and he'll show ya."

"Thanks," Harley grinned and turned to Roxy. "Now I just need a change of clothes. You can probably smell me from there."

"Hey, you wanna borrow somethin'?" Roxy gushed. "Come on! I got all kindsa stuff, and not all of it's for strippin'!"

* * *

Roxy provided Harley with a cherry red mini dress, her least provocative outfit of those lacking sequins and latex because of its 'conservative' neckline. It fit like a glove, but Harley managed to track down a sweatshirt that had been chopped up Flashdance-style to draw less attention to herself.

But Harley was grateful for it, especially the following morning when she was able to shower and change out of the black knit dress she'd been wearing for days.

After cleaning up, Harley climbed down the fire escape and wandered up the street to the grocery store to find out more about the gym Marty had mentioned. Ralphie led her into the back room, where the Joker had been prepping his goons to 'attack' the club, and down a wide flight of stairs hidden beneath a crate of soda. Below the grocery store there was a large gym outfitted with punching bags and old-school dumbbells, and in the middle of the room was a boxing ring which Harley imagined was used more for off-the-books fights than it was for training. She decided she would see about asking Roxy to pick her up some sneakers so she could indulge in a workout. Her body had been almost constantly clenched since she'd fled her apartment, and she was craving physical exertion to release some stress.

There was  _one_  other thing that fit the bill, something that had been lingering in the back of her mind since those brief minutes in the bathroom with the Joker, but she was unwilling to entertain that horrendous idea any further. Especially not since she suspected he thought of her more like a dancing bear to amuse him than a human being.

In the old, powder-blue Mercedes that was rapidly becoming 'hers,' Harley drove straight Uptown, not seeing the point in following the driver from his home, and chanced a trip to the cafe for a healthy breakfast and a coffee.

It was funny how she could find small pockets of 'normal' in the strangeness of the new world she occupied.

She watched the driver arrive and disappear inside as she sipped her coffee and worked on the Gotham Globe crossword. He reappeared a few hours later to pick up dry cleaning, and after agonizing over showing her face in public again, Harley ultimately followed him inside to drop off her filthy black dress, keeping the collar of her coat up around her face.

Then, predictably, they returned to Freddi Maroni's townhouse. It was an even less eventful day than the previous one, the driver not making another appearance until after the sun had set to pick up a pizza. Harley snuck in to get herself a slice, again keeping her head down and her collar up. After that, it was the usual routine. The driver's shift finished at ten. He drove to the dive bar Downtown, then returned to his apartment around the corner.

Harley drove back to the Cauldron and parked in the gravel lot besides Grin's. She was planning on picking Marty's brains for more information about his past life as a 'master assassin' and, even more intriguing, who his boys got their coke from if they were on Maroni's blacklist.

 _Maybe_ , she needed to learn more about this Russian mafia she kept hearing about.

But when she strolled up to the bar, she was surprised to find a kid with bright red hair who couldn't have been more than eighteen occupying Marty's usual spot.

"Harley, right?" He asked once she'd sidled up to the bar.

"Yeah," she confirmed warily. "Is Marty around?"

"He said to tell you if you need to blow off some steam to go meet him in the gym," the kid explained with a smirk.

Harley narrowed her eyes, her guard immediately up. "What the fuck does  _that_  mean?"

"It means the O'Riley boys are gonna kill some Sullivans tonight," the kid grinned.

Harley's eyebrows shot up in surprise. So now she was being invited to take part in gang warfare.

Well, she'd sunk this low. The offer to blow off some steam appealed to her, almost as much as the opportunity to find out more about the inner workings of the Irish mob. She could think of it as  _networking._

Harley headed for the dressing room Roxy had shown her the night before and politely asked to borrow some eyeshadow, then walked up the street to the Irish bodega, anticipation and uncertainty twisting together in her stomach.

Ralphie was behind the counter again. He inclined his head to the back of the store, indicating Harley should head for the secret entrance to the gym. Harley stopped before going down the stairs, intentionally  _not_  questioning herself as she rubbed her thumb in the small pot of black eyeshadow then smeared it around her eyes as best she could without a mirror. She blackened her eyes from her eyebrows to her cheekbones, then pocketed the eyeshadow and retrieved a red lipstick from the depths of her coat, applying a messy slick around her mouth.

If she was going to join a bunch of former assassins in a fight for their honor, she would need a little help looking the part.

And it worked, too. She trotted down the stairs to find a group of about twenty men drinking whiskey and loading weapons. Marty saw her first.

"Holy  _fuckin'_  Christ!" he exclaimed, his face rapidly shifting from shock to delight, his men following suit.

Harley could see it on all of their faces. The fear and uncertainty of what she  _meant_  by appearing this way. The awe that whatever  _she_  was, she was there to join _them_.

"Got space for one more?" She grinned ruefully.

* * *

Harley still wasn't sure if this was a good idea, but it was too late now that she was squeezed in the backseat of an old Camero, speeding through the Cauldron with Marty and three men named Donny Boy, Paddy Three Fingers, and Shitbag. They were all whooping happily as they swigged whiskey and sniffed cocaine off keys, not giving a  _shit_  that they were obscene or that the car was on the verge of wrapping around a lamppost. They only cared about what they wanted at that moment, and they were taking it.

The Camero squealed to a stop out front of a bar on the corner of a block of buildings that appeared to be leaning on each other to remain upright. There was a shabby wooden sign over the door declaring the pub The Stacked Deck, and three or four men stood out front smoking cigarettes as they huddled together conspicuously. When the Camero roared up alongside them, the men exchanged nervous looks, and when the van carting the rest of Marty's boys screeched up behind them, they threw their cigarettes down and bolted back into the pub.

"Fuckin' cowards!" Shitbag howled, stuffing a rag that reeked of kerosene into the bottle of whiskey he'd been swigging.

Marty and the others jumped out of the car, pulling their weapons and shouting obscenities. Shitbag lobbed the Molotov cocktail at the bar's entrance, and there was a blast of heat as it exploded in a burst of flames.

Harley's heart was pounding in her neck as she slid out of the car and drew her Beretta. When Marty shouted a rallying cry, she hung back, watching his boys storm the pub like a hoard of wild invaders intent on death and destruction. She laughed incredulously when one of the bar's windows shattered, and two men wrestling tumbled out into the street.

"Fuck it," she sighed, throwing herself forward, the last one to pass beneath the now-flaming pub sign.

It was bedlam. Fists were flying into faces as men collided with one another in a violent clash of skin and blood. The guns Harley had seen were mostly absent, the O'Rileys and their Sullivan rivals preferring to use bare knuckles to make their points. For them,  _this_  was blowing off steam.

A man with blood pouring down his face advanced on Harley as she stepped over the threshold, and she reacted without thinking, whipping out the Berretta and shooting him in the belly. A hand wrapped around her arm, and she spun around to face her second attacker, cracking him in the side of the head with the butt of her gun. He swayed and fell to his knees, and Harley felt her nervousness evaporate as she kicked him in the chest, knocking him flat on his back.

Someone grabbed her by the hair, and she yelped as she was forced to stagger backward, pain rippling across her scalp. She grabbed what remained of a broken pint glass off a table and stabbed blindly at the arm of her assailant, making him spit and curse as he released her.

Harley whipped around, and once she was facing her attacker, his eyes widened, trying to comprehend who or  _what_  this person painted like the Joker was. He hesitated long enough to give Harley an opening to lunch forward and stab the broken pint glass into his neck, making him scream. There was a spurt of blood as she twisted the glass, and when she stepped back, the man scrabbled at his throat and he fell to his knees, gagging and gurgling.

Breathing hard, Harley looked around for her next attacker - or her next victim? - when she saw a familiar, fleshy face peering through the small window leading to the pub's kitchen.

Bertinelli.

He spotted her seconds after she saw him, his eyes growing huge, possibly not recognizing her from a few nights earlier, but certainly knowing the black eyes and red mouth were something to fear. His face disappeared from the window as he fled and Harley dashed across the bar after him, flinging open the double doors of the kitchen to find it abandoned and the back door still swinging. She darted through the kitchen, her heels skidding as she threw herself out into the alley behind the pub.

There was a long, dark alley running the length of the block, and Bertinelli had opted to run into the dark instead of out onto the dimly lit street. Harley jogged after him, aiming for his back as she fired two shots. The first hit a dumpster, but the second grazed his thigh, slowing him down to a desperate limp. Harley put her head down and sprinted after him, closing the distance between them just as he reached the end of the ally and careened left.

Harley skidded out onto the street after him, Bertinelli only a few yards in front of her now. He pushed through a couple of junkies who whined complaints after him, but when they saw Harley stalking up the street toward them, they stopped short, their eyes widening in horror.

She was about to shout at them to get out of the way when there was a flapping sound overhead. It drew her attention up, and she saw movement in the darkened fire escapes. Instinct more than experience told her this was not good as she tried to keep track of a figure in the darkness,  _knowing_  who it was but not quite accepting it.

A small object landed on the pavement beside her feet, and a second later, she was enveloped in a black cloud that smelled like fireworks and completely obscured her vision.

" _Run,_ " a familiar voice growled, confirming Harley's suspicions. The Batman was there, and he was telling the junkies to  _run away from Harley. R_ ealizing that she was the bad guy kicked her out of the trance his magic trick put her under. Adrenaline surged through her, and she bolted, praying she was going anywhere other than straight into the Batman's path.

The cloud of black cleared as a car horn blared and Harley realized she was in the middle of the street. But she didn't stop running, hoping the car would swerve around her.

She heard a roar and the crunch of metal behind her and chanced a glance over her shoulder when she reached the sidewalk. The Batman was in the middle of the road, pulling himself to his feet in front of an old Buick with a distinctly Batman-shaped wrinkle in its hood. Harley might have laughed if she wasn't in such a hurry to get the hell out of there.

She refused to get caught by the Batman.

It would give the Joker too much pleasure.

She sprinted up the street, trying not to think about the bad odds that she'd be able to get away on foot as she stumbled into a part of the Cauldron that was more populated than the area around Grin's. There was a pub on the corner with a couple of kids smoking out front, and across the street, the neighborhood's decrepit metro station.

She heard the metallic  _whip_  of something flying toward her and dodged to the right, her heart hammering in her chest. Something bat-shaped and silver shot past her head, and she knew that meant the Batman was gaining on her. She knew she needed to put distance between them. She knew she wouldn't be able to outrun him.

A plan came together, a terrible, shitty plan, but apparently shitty plans were the best ones.

Harley headed for the pub and grabbed the first smoker she could reach. He tried to pull away, cursing at her as he swung around to find the barrel of Harley's gun in his face.

"Move!" She demanded, forcing him to stumble away from his friends with her.

Harley balled her hand into the front of his shirt and pulled his back against her chest, keeping the Beretta pressed to his cheek as she backed them out into the street.

The Batman came to a stop, his shoulders hunched as he tried to calculate her next move, the kids watching helplessly on the street behind him as their friend was dragged away.

Harley was getting dizzy, the adrenaline in her blood spiking over and over again, and her nerves shot. There wasn't time to take stock of the situation, not of the boy she was using as a hostage or the Batman still closing in even when she fired a warning shot into the street.

" _Harleen,_ " He growled, trying to reason with her, but she fired a second shot, sending the few people heading for the metro scattering and screaming into the night.

Somehow, she managed to drag the boy up the stairs to the train platform, the Batman keeping a steady distance.

"You won't survive this," the Batman rumbled.

"If you come any closer, I  _will_  shoot this kid," Harley snapped, her voice low and calm despite her pounding heart. "And it will be  _your_  fault. It's  _your_  choice."

Her words seemed to trigger something in the Batman that held him back, and when the train pulled up to the platform, Harley waited until the split second before the doors closed before she pushed the boy away and darted onto the train.

There was only one homeless man in the carriage, sleeping on the floor and oblivious to Harley, and as the train pulled away, she saw the Batman slam into the glass of the closed doors, roaring in frustration.

The next stop was Chinatown, and Harley practically flew off the train and onto the platform then out of the station, keeping her head down to avoid anyone seeing her face in the brightly lit station. She was lucky though; not a single person passed her as she fled the station, sticking to the shadows as she put more distance between herself and the Batman.

The most important thing was getting off the street. She had to find somewhere to hide, and the only place she knew to hide in Chinatown was the studio apartment she'd been taken to the last time she'd been running from the Batman.

There was only one thing for it. Harley pulled out the phone that had a number for the Joker stored and called it, knowing it was a slim chance that he still had that phone on him or that he would even answer it.

It rang twice.

" _Fancy_  that," his voice purred down the line. "I was just  _thinkin_ ' about you."

"I um... I," Harley stuttered, trying to think of a concise way to explain her dilemma. "I... uh..."

" _That_  doesn't sound good," he hummed, obviously amused. "Get yourself into some ah...  _trouble_?"

"I need to get into that apartment in Chinatown," she burst out, hoping being direct would work with him this  _one_  time. "I'm - I need to hide - the Batman was  _chasing_  me. I need-"

She could hear him exhale and mutter to himself, and she wanted to demand he  _say_  something but knew that would only draw this game of his out.

"You're in luck," he informed her slyly. "I'm  _just_  around the corner. Meet you there in... fifteen?"

"Yeah, okay, fine," Harley said distractedly, hanging up before he could add something poisonous. She looked up at the street signs and restaurant names, trying to place herself in the labyrinthine streets of Chinatown. It was late and quiet, and all of the shops and stores were closed, but none of that helped her feel less paranoid.

She managed to orientate herself and found the street the apartment was located on, then checked her phone to see that twenty minutes had passed. Harley spent a full minute agonizing over whether she should call him again or knock on the door when the gated door beside the Chinese restaurant swung open invitingly.

Harley jogged across the street and into the building, slamming the gated door behind her as she collapsed against the wall. Her whole body was trembling as she pressed her face to the peeling plaster, telling herself she was safe as she summoned the will power to climb the narrow flight of stairs.

The door to the apartment was ajar at the top of the stairs, and it was only once Harley had slipped inside and pushed the door shut behind her that she felt some modicum of relief.

 _"_ Jesus _... you_  don't look so good."

Harley spun around at the sound of the Joker's voice, in no mood to deal with his prodding. She had been expecting the purple suit and warpaint, not used to being in this state of anxious, terrified, adrenaline-fueled mania without him dressed in full Joker regalia. But there he was standing in the middle of the apartment, wearing a gray suit with a crisp white shirt and a slim black tie. His feet were bare, and his hair was greasy but scraped off his face, and he was holding that same dirty glass, half-filled with a brown liquor she assumed was his drink of choice: bourbon.

He lifted one eyebrow, looking her over quickly before gesturing for her to come further into the apartment.

"C'mon," he coaxed, licking his lips and taking a seat on the black couch, the apartment's lone piece of furniture. He patted the cushion beside him. "Why don't you tell me  _allllll_  about it."

Harley ran a hand over her face, the sticky residue of the lipstick she'd haphazardly smeared tacky on her palm. Her heart was still pounding, and she discovered she was a little  _disappointed_  that he wasn't giving her more of a reason to be pissed at him. Cruel would have been preferable to patronizing and accommodating. She didn't  _trust_  accommodating.

There was no way she could sit, so she attempted to compose herself by shrugging out of her coat and throwing it over the back of the couch before she snatched the bourbon out of his hand. She took two healthy swallows that made her choke then started to pace, replaying the evening's events in her head.

"Ya know, my patience is finite," the Joker snapped, resting his elbows on his knees as he peered up at her. Harley scowled at him, which only made him smirk. "What are you _wearing_  anyway?" He added, his eyes drifting down to her legs where Roxy's cherry red mini dress ended. His head tipped to the side and sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, examining her.

"I had to borrow something from one of the strippers at Grin and Bare It," Harley bit out irritably.

The Joker started to chuckle, an incredulous and unpleasant smirk pulling his mouth wide in a way that made Harley feel like she was about to be eaten.

"Shut up!" She snapped and continued to pace because she didn't know what else to _do_  with herself. "I saw Bertinelli," she continued. "He was at the Stacked Deck - or, he was - now he's out in the street somewhere with a hole in his leg."

" _Marty_  took you to the Stacked Deck?" the Joker lifted an eyebrow, looking delighted.

"Yes," Harley swallowed and forced herself to sit on the couch and hand the drink back to him so she wouldn't drink it all herself.

"Sounds like fun," the Joker drawled, his eyes rolling over her as she dug her fingers into the tops of her boots.

Harley ignored the impulse to punch him on the arm, her hand twitching on her leg. She would love to hit him, and he would probably hit her back.  _That_  would be satisfying.

" _Anyway,"_  he said, and Harley looked over at him, unsurprised to find him smirking wolfishly at her. "Tell me about the  _Batman._  Did he try to  _save_  you?" He tipped his head back to appraise her through hooded eyes. "I  _bet_  he did," he growled.

Harley didn't say anything, too aware that he was looking at her like something he wanted to  _eat_ again. The thought sent a ripple of arousal tinged with fear through her, and a tense, heavy silence fell between them.

She made her choice quickly, and moved even quicker, twisting up on one knee and swinging her leg over his thighs so she was straddling him. His body tensed as her hands snaked up his chest to his shoulders, and he stared up at her blankly as she hovered over him, letting the moment  _linger_  before she bent down to kiss him.

His hands immediately slid up her back, the glass of bourbon tumbling to the floor as he pulled her closer, their teeth knocking together as they each fought for dominance over what could only just constitute a kiss. It was  _exactly_  what Harley wanted. She wanted the fight to continue. She wanted to  _win_. He seemed to understand her need for a fight and indulged her, grabbing a handful of her hair and forcing her head back as his arm tightened around her back. Then his mouth slid up the side of her neck, and all of Harley's ideas about winning and losing became blurred. All she wanted was more.

She could feel him getting hard against the inside of her thigh as she squirmed against him, and she was more than aware of the heat growing between her legs. It made her desperate to touch him, and she frantically pulled his shirt free from his pants and slipped her hands beneath it. Their mouths collided again as Harley raked her nails over his stomach, feeling the muscles twitch under her palms as he exhaled gruffly into her mouth.

There was something so deeply arousing about that sound. Something so powerful and so  _wrong_  about seducing someone so dangerous. Harley dug her fingers into his ribs as she ground her hips down to feel him through the fabric of their clothes, thoughtlessly chasing sensation, and when she did it a second time he squeezed a hand between them to stroke her through her underwear.

Harley's head fell back, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheek as her fingers curled into his suit jacket, twisting it tight. His mouth was on her throat again, and she could feel her pulse pounding against his tongue as he slowly rubbed two fingers over her, back and forth, making her eyes slide shut as she leaned into him. Then he nudged her underwear to the side to touch her properly, repeating those slow, deliberate movements as he hummed against the side of Harley's neck.

She threaded her fingers into his hair, pulling him closer as she canted her hips against his hand to encourage him. He started to touch her more intentionally, pulling a series of weak, breathless sounds out of her as the heat coiling in Harley's abdomen began to spread. She felt his breath fan out against her neck, making her cling to him tighter as he pushed her closer to completion, but when he huffed a curse into her skin, Harley realized she wanted much,  _much_  more from him.

She pulled away from him abruptly to paw at his belt, yanking the leather free from the buckle before fighting with the button and zip of his pants and tugging them down to free him. She looked back up at him as she took him in hand and was unsurprised to find him staring blankly at her. She rose up on her knees, positioning herself above him, and met his eye again before she slid down his length.

Pleasure ripped through her almost instantly, making her moan quietly as waves of sensation engulfed her. She could feel his hands on her beneath her dress, his thumbs digging into her waist, encouraging her to move, and she began to lift and lower her hips, riding through the lingering storm of pleasure.

She heard him hiss " _fuck_ ," and something about the rough tone of his voice made the reality of what they were doing crystalize around her. There he was -  _him_  - below her,  _inside her_ , his jaw tense and his eyes serious as she fucked him. He must have seen the realization dawn on her face, because his mouth suddenly curled up on one side, and then he was thrusting up to meet her, no longer passively letting her control their coupling.

Harley bore down on him harder, watching him approach his end as their movements became more erratic and desperate. Then he reached between them to touch her again, and with a few short swipes of his thumb, Harley was coming with him, both of them grabbing for clothes and hair and skin as they fell over the edge together.

When it was over, Harley fell forward against his shoulder, catching her breath, and he grew very still beneath her. Now she was exhausted, feelings and decisions and choices forming a fog of white noise that she didn't care to wade into. He was still inside her, and a few thoughts about sexual health trickled into the fray, but Harley wrote those off too. Instead, she rolled to the side, falling onto the couch in a slump beside him, and stared across the room, contemplating what it all meant, deciding it meant everything and nothing at once and accepting that as fact.

With that peace of mind, she curled up on her side and pulled her coat over herself, then closed her eyes and fell asleep.

* * *

**A/N: Well, that probably complicates things.**

**Hopefully, a little light smut won't put any of you off...**

**Next: Harley starts to carve out a place for herself, and the Joker drags her into another hellish adventure.**

**Please review ;)**


	15. Chapter 15

The Harlequin

15.

* * *

Sunlight was shining through a crack in the cardboard covering the small apartment's windows, just enough to light the room and nudge Harley awake. She opened one eye and looked around as she tried to get her bearings. It was soon apparent that she was alone, curled up on the couch with her coat covering her, her brain foggy like she'd been drinking, the mild ache between her legs reminding her of what had transpired the night before.

She pulled herself up to sitting and ran her hand over her forehead, trying to clear her mind with the pressure of her palm. She suspected the fogginess was more to do with stress and adrenaline instead of the few shots of bourbon she'd had to calm herself. It hadn't worked, not as well as the sex that followed. She'd slept like a baby after that unexpected, intense, and deeply satisfying act of copulation.

_Jesus._

Harley checked one of her burner phones and saw it was almost noon. So she was alone in Chinatown in the middle of the day, without the Joker or any of the weird cast of characters he surrounded himself with to help her. There was something both wonderfully freeing and terrifying about that, and for the first time in a long while, Harley believed she would be able to fend for herself, even if she was a wanted woman.

She stood up and stretched out her aching limbs, then shuffled sluggishly to the cramped, utilitarian bathroom to pee. Her reflection in the mirror above the sink was grim, the top half of her face blackened with smudged eye shadow, the lower half stained red from her lipstick. But this time she didn't groan in dismay or cringe at the frightening mess she presented, she simply fished a bar of soap out of the shower stall, turned on the sink and began washing away the caked makeup.

When her skin was scrubbed raw from the harsh soap, she took care of the sticky situation between her legs, making sure not to think about the actual act that put it there. Her underwear was ruined, and she knew she would need to do something about that if she didn't want to deal with a UTI or worse. That only served to make her think about the unprotected sex again, but clinically, not emotionally. Harley had had a birth control implant placed in her upper arm during her last trip to the OBGYN. It meant she didn't get a period anymore and didn't have to worry about getting knocked up if the opportunity to have casual sex arose as it had the night before. As for her sexual health, well, it was too late to worry about it now, and if she remembered correctly, everything had looked...  _healthy._

 _Very_  healthy.

Harley squeezed her eyes shut. "Unhelpful," she muttered to herself.

So that was that. Harley left the bathroom, teasing out the knots in her hair so she could braid it into a dairy crown again. She reasoned most people wanted for multiple murders didn't have cutsie hairstyles, and if she was going to go out in public, it was better to be safe than sorry. She slid on the dark sunglasses she'd stolen from the Joker, contemplating just walking down the street as if her face hadn't been printed on the front page of multiple newspapers for the past week.

But the image they'd been printing had been taken a year earlier, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, her mouth pinched and eyes serious as she'd stared down the lens for her Arkham ID photo. She'd lost weight since then, her cheekbones more prominent, her hair longer and lighter, her clothes less shapeless and prudish. If the Joker could go out in a pair of sunglasses, so could she.

She stopped short on her way out the door, surprised to see a key laying on the floor. Harley knelt to pick it up, feeling strangely numb knowing he'd left it there for her. Had he left it so that she could lock up? Or so she could go back if she needed to?

Harley shook her head, unwilling to devote any more energy to the Joker's motivations. He'd long ago proven himself to be the most complex personality she'd ever encountered. The most dangerous, compelling, and the most seductive, too, as it turned out. Not empathetic. Not capable of remorse or prone to kindness. But capable of affection and even generosity, it seemed,  _within reason_.

Once she'd locked up, she pocketed the key and turned to face the street, the chilly air making the sun seem even brighter. She kept her hands in her pockets but didn't bother to keep her head down as she walked through Chinatown and into the Cauldron. People in Gotham didn't typically smile at one another or even make eye contact, but when someone moved aside to let her pass down a narrow street, Harley flashed them a grateful smile that was returned without suspicion.

It took about thirty minutes to walk to Grin and Bare It, an extra ten to give the street she'd encountered the Batman on a wide berth. The club was quiet when Harley arrived, but she could see Ralphie stacking boxes outside the grocery store up the street, his jaw swollen up from the fight the night before.

Harley crunched through the gravel parking lot to her old, powder blue Mercedes and fished through her coat pocket for the keys. She didn't have a destination in mind as she pulled out of the parking lot, driving aimlessly for a few blocks before turning onto the freeway, and as she sped down the highway, she let her mind drift back to the first criminology lecture she'd sat through at Gotham University.

The professor had spoken about the rarity of true psychopaths, how it wasn't just a lack of empathy or willingness to take life that categorized a person as such, but the specific presence of some combination of intelligence, charm, sadism, and manipulation that made them much more dangerous than your average murderer.

What did that make Harley? She wasn't incapable of empathy, and she was fluent in regret, but she was also capable of killing at will and enjoying the violence of it. The memory of stabbing a man with a broken beer glass flashed before her mind's eye. She had been able to  _feel_  the pain in his scream, but she'd driven the glass down harder. Was it his pain that she enjoyed? Or her ability to control it? Or was she just an adrenaline junkie caught up in the moment...

She didn't even regret it, and the longer she dwelled on it, the more she came to realize that that man meant nothing to her.

He had just been flesh without a personality or a purpose.

So it seemed Harley's capacity for empathy was more limited than she'd realized. It might have extended to children in Africa, but not to some poor sap who'd been drinking in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong gang of Irish thugs.

She drove for a long time, never leaving Gotham's borders though she could have made it to Metropolis in under an hour. She still had over nineteen-thousand dollars in her coat pocket, but what would the end result be?

Eventually, the Mercedes began to run low on fuel, and she had to pull off the freeway in search of a gas station. She found herself in the University District, and once she'd refueled, she drove idly around her old stomping grounds. It was  _probably_  dangerous for her to drive on campus, but she did it anyway, passing the fraternity houses she'd cavorted at as an undergrad, and then the psych building where she'd spent a majority of her academic career.

If driving around campus was dangerous, getting out and walking definitely was, but Harley was sick of being in the car by this stage. She parked near the psych building and wandered the edge of the campus, mulling over how many things would have been different if she'd never come to Gotham in the first place. Whether they would have been better or worse was debatable.

She walked to University Park and decided to stop at the cafe on the corner to buy herself a sandwich and coffee. The place was packed with students trying to get out of the cold, but none of them paid Harley any attention as she waited in line to pick up her coffee. People didn't notice things unless they were looking, she realized.

A pair of students stood up at the table beside her, zipping up many layers of jackets and wrapping themselves in thick scarves, and when they'd cleared out, Harley spotted a wrinkled copy of the day's Gotham Gazette on their table. On the front page, right there in black and white ink, was her face, grainy like a blown up still from a CCTV camera. Her eyes were wild and ringed in black, her mouth twisted into a sneer, and she knew the exact moment that image had been taken, just seconds before she'd released her hostage and jumped on the train.

It instantly reminded her of the images of the Joker the media used, both in its poor composition and the disturbing, inhuman quality the subject projected.

This, Hartley assumed, had to have been the Gazette's reasoning for their headline:

_"DR HARLEEN QUINZEL OR HARLEY QUINN? ARKHAM DOCTOR GOES ROGUE."_

Harley tore her eyes away from the newspaper to look around the cafe, sure that someone must have noticed that  _she_  was the person on the front page of the Gotham Gazette.

The barista called the name she'd given them  _"Ann?"_  and met Harley's eye with a smile as she handed her the coffee. "Have a good night, Ann," she chirped.

"Thanks," Harley replied faintly.

Bewildered, she slowly made her way out of the cafe and into the park. The grass was crunchy and frozen beneath her boots, and when she found a bench to collapse on, she tried to decide how she felt about the name _'Harley Quinn.'_  It was no doubt a Vicki Vale creation, tying her forever to the Joker if it stuck. Harley didn't intend to make any more public outings with her face painted, even if it had proved useful. She could vividly remember the reactions it pulled from the men at the Stacked Deck, scaring them and slowing them down. If another situation called for it, she would wear it again, but she needed to be more careful about not having her picture taken, and not coming face to face with the Batman either. The Joker may have enjoyed engaging him, but Harley did not.

The winter sun began to set, and Harley's mind drifted back to the Joker, and the concept Vicki Vale presented by naming her ' _Harley Quinn.'_  Harlequin.  _The_  Harlequin, maybe. It made them sound like some dynamic duo, which was the  _farthest_  thing from the truth. Accomplice,  _maybe_. Victim,  _possible_. And after last night... well,  _complicated_  came to mind.

It had been like an itch Harley had been telling herself she didn't need to scratch. She allowed herself,  _briefly_ , to try to understand how it had happened, how she had been feeling and why she'd kissed him, but she kept returning how it'd felt to have him touch her as he watched her react with dark, hungry eyes. Her thoughts drifted to the tension she'd felt in his hands as they'd tightened on her waist, pulling her down onto him harder, and the way it felt to have him...

She squeezed her eyes shut as her toes started to curl in her shoes, and she tried to will those thoughts away.

Harley was no prude, and she was successfully undoing a lifetime of conditioning to only make  _logical_  choices instead of doing what she wanted or what felt right, but there was  _zero_  chance starting a sexual relationship with the Joker would end well.

Even if it was tempting.

She got to her feet, needing to walk and distract herself from the fact that she was getting turned on just thinking about him. Instead, she headed for the Mega Mart on the other side of campus, concluding that something needed to be done about her lack of material possessions.

With the sun now set, Harley had to take off her sunglasses or risk drawing attention, but still, none of the people who passed her took any notice.

She felt more confident when she got to the brightly lit Mega Mart, grabbing a shopping cart out front and pushing it to the store's women's wear section. First, she greedily snatched up multi-packs of black briefs to resolve her underwear problems, then a pair of black skinny jeans and a soft green sweater. She smiled to herself as she fingered a blouse with a pussy bow collar. It was the kind of thing she would have never been able to wear at Arkham, but that time was most certainly over. She dropped the black blouse in her cart and then its twin in violet, ignoring the fact it was the same color as the Joker's suit. She added a few plain tee shirts and tank tops to the cart, along with some leggings and sneakers to work out in, then headed for the cosmetics aisle to collect the basic toiletries she'd been missing for almost a week.

In the electronics area she picked up an iPhone and sim card, reasoning if it was pay-as-you-go and she didn't give her real name it would be untraceable, and on her way past homeware she impulsively picked up a set of sheets and pillowcases. As she pushed her cart toward check out, she plucked a duffle bag out of a bin of sale items, and then came across the leftover Halloween merchandise, including one last set of black, red and white face paints. Harley smiled as she added the paint pallet to her cart.

With all of her worldly possessions now stashed in a discount duffle bag, Harley headed back to her car with a bounce in her step.

The  _Harley Quinn_  thing was quite fortuitous. Even if what it implied was  _wrong,_  it gave Harley power without her having to do the things the Joker did to make people fear him. Harley was automatically granted that fear by association. And as per usual, Gotham's media, just like its police force, were making the Joker's point for him.

She had a few hours to kill before the driver's shift ended - she hadn't forgotten about him - so Harley parked near the dive bar he frequented Downtown to charge her new phone and catch up on the stories written about her since she'd been caught on CCTV escaping the Batman. Apparently ' _Harley Quinn'_  had been trending since Vicki Vale coined the name that morning, and each one of Gotham's lead publications had something to say about it. Even the kid she'd taken hostage had been interviewed on the evening news, telling the world that Harley was even more terrifying than the Joker.

_Debatable._

Just before ten, Harley changed into jeans and a sweater in her car and headed for the dive bar. It was a half-empty sports bar populated by weathered, working-class men downing frothy pints of beer, so she ordered herself a beer to fit in and continued to read about herself while she waited for the driver. He showed up at half-past, looking dog-tired in a rumpled suit like he'd had a rough day. He took a seat at the bar a few stools down from Harley, and she watched him out of the corner of her eye as he ordered a beer and tugged off his tie.

Had he always looked this tired and downtrodden and she'd just been too far away to see it before?

The driver spent an hour and a half watching the football game playing on a flat-screen behind the bar, nursing the same beer before he sighed, paid the bartender, and took off at midnight. Harley already knew he would drive the three blocks to his townhouse where he would sleep before returning to the task of keeping Freddi Maroni alive from 9 AM the next day.

That was Harley's current working theory about his relationship with Maroni's bastard, but she only had circumstantial evidence to prove it. To understand him, she needed to speak to him, but  _he_  had to be the one to engage her. It would take time but what the hell, it wasn't like she didn't have plenty of that.

After she finished her beer, Harley headed back to Grin's, where she found Marty behind the bar, sporting a black eye and a heavily bandaged hand where he'd been stabbed the night before.

Harley chuckled and shook her head as she indulged Marty in retelling her stories of the men he'd murdered or maimed at the Stacked Deck. She could tell it gave him  _genuine_  pleasure to kill men he felt deserved to die, and Harley wondered how much of it had to do with being raised to be an assassin, and how much was just a lack of gray matter in his prefrontal cortex.

But as much as Harley was coming to like Marty, she wasn't there to be social, so once he'd gotten the bragging out of his system, she artfully navigated the conversation toward the Russian Mafia by quietly conceding that  _apparently,_  she'd accidentally killed the sister of the head of the Russian Mob.

"Aye, Katarina?" Marty made a face as he cracked open his third beer. "Ye'll not be wanting to take credit for that. As far as Yuri's concerned, it was the Joker, and you should keep it that way. He's a nasty sonofabitch."

"Yuri is the head of the Russian mafia?" Harley clarified.

"Yuri Dimitrov. But only since the Joker killed his brother last summer," Marty shrugged indifferently and sipped his beer. "The Chechen was a nasty piece of work as well. You don't want to tangle with those boys, Harley."

"Doesn't sound like it," Harley said thoughtfully, remembering the name 'The Chechen' had been mentioned multiple times in Harvey Dent's investigation. "Why did the Joker kill him?"

Marty laughed. "Who the hell knows why J does anything?"

"So Yuri thinks the Joker killed his brother and his sister," Harley mused, trying to recall how Dent's investigation had connected the Chechen to Maroni. "He must  _hate_  the Joker."

"People say the Chechen was fuckin' Yuri's wife," Marty shrugged, swigging his beer. "Who knows about Katarina. But the Russians will do anything for a fuckin' penny."

"I see," Harley grinned slyly. "So the Russians sell you coke regardless of whatever deal they have with Maroni."

"Smart girl," Marty lifted his drink to her in salute. "Be careful that don't get you in trouble, Harley Quinn."

Harley laughed and raised her glass to clink against his.

She stayed in the bar until it closed at 4 AM, gently probing Marty for information and making light-hearted small talk with Roxy during her breaks. When she got back to her room, she re-made the bed with fresh sheets from the Mega Mart and slept soundly until late the next morning, feeling more in control of her life than she had in a very long time.

* * *

The next day, once she'd tracked down something to eat, Harley changed into sneakers and leggings and sought out Ralphie from the grocery store, convincing him to give her a boxing lesson.

"Jesus, you're fuckin' fast," he complained as she ducked his 'easy' right hooks as he'd shown her. "You're still not doing it right, but ya move like the fuckin' wind."

"Gymnastics every day for almost twenty years," Harley explained ruefully, then showed him a roundoff, double-back handspring, aerial cartwheel, which she landed even without a sprung floor, grinning triumphantly as Ralphie clapped.

Later that night, Harley went to the dive bar Downtown to wait for the driver. He appeared looking exhausted at half-past ten and took the same seat at the bar he'd taken the night before. He yanked off his tie, ordered a beer, and nursed it over an hour and a half as he watched the game, then took off.

For the next six days, Harley repeated this new routine with dedication. During the day she trained with Ralphie, at night she watched the driver drink alone, then she returned to Grin and Bare It where she delicately prodded Marty for information until the bar shut. Marty was a wealth of knowledge, and prone to saying more than he should around the 3 AM mark when he'd had a few beers, and the trickle of customers began to slow.

Through Marty, Harley learned that it had been the Russians who sold the Joker the weapons she'd seen at the pier the night of the Crowne Gala. Bruno had set it up while the Joker was still in Arkham, and the Russians had been all too happy to oblige for the low price of diamonds, sapphires, and rubies.

Bruno had an intriguing story too. Marty spilled that Bruno had been a mid-level enforcer for Carmine Falcone until Falcone found out that Bruno's wife - a mob lawyer - had started snitching. Falcone had Bruno's wife and daughter brutally murdered by a profoundly disturbing-sounding individual called Victor Zsasz, and a distraught and vengeful Bruno joined the Joker, who by then had started " _doing his own thing,"_  which Marty refused to elaborate on. The timeline on this was less clear.

It was obvious that Marty had known the Joker, or 'J' as he called him, for years, just like Bruno. Harley suspected Marty also knew how the Joker got his scars after he divulged a particularly tantalizing piece of information. Apparently, the Joker had always been known as 'Joker' except for  _"back in the day"_  when some people called him  _"Pretty Boy,_ " but it never "s _tuck like Joker did."_

Pretty Boy. Harley was definitely filing that one away for future use.

But no matter how she poked and prodded she couldn't get anything substantial out of Marty about the Joker's past, making her wonder if it was fear or loyalty that kept him quiet.

Then, on the seventh night, something finally happened. Harley was at the dive bar, slowly sipping her beer and reading an opinion piece in the Gotham Globe by Bertrum Crowne about how the Dent Act couldn't pass when the MCU had been caught lying about ongoing investigations.

For a few nights now, Harley had been sitting on the stool beside the one the driver always took. When he arrived at half-past ten, he took off his tie, ordered his beer, and sat beside her, even with an excess of empty stools to choose from. Harley alternated between reading her phone and pretending to watch the game, which she still didn't understand after seven nights of watching overweight men tackle each other.

"Jesus!" The driver threw his hands up after a controversial tackle, then turned to Harley. "They aren't gonna be able to come back from that," he told her.

Harley smiled, elated that he'd finally made contact. "I don't know much about football," she admitted. "But it makes for good background noise."

"I'm from Wisconsin," he explained, his eyes back on the TV as the commentators discussed the tackle. "It's basically illegal not to follow football there."

 _Volunteering information_ , Harley thought.  _Friendly, bored, maybe_.

"Wow, and I thought it was getting cold here," Harley chuckled. "It must be freezing in Wisconsin."

"Not yet," the driver said conversationally, turning his attention back to Harley. "Normally it gets  _really_  bad right after Christmas."

 _Lonely_ , Harley thought _. Looking for human connection._

"Do you go back for the holidays?" She asked carefully, not wanting to press too hard.

"Ah, my job's kind of hard to get away from, even at the holidays," he said, looking sour, and no doubt thinking about the heroin addict waiting for him Uptown.

"I know what you mean," Harley pivoted, hoping to distract him. "In Denmark, they get the entire month of December off, can you believe it? That would never happen here."

"That's crazy," he replied, a boyish smile easing onto his face.  _Definitely lonely._  "I bet Denmark is cold right now," he added.

They made small talk about the weather, Wisconsin and democratic socialism, and Harley learned that he had a father and sister back in Wisconsin and had been driving "rich kids from Midtown" around since he'd moved to Gotham with Wall Street aspirations almost a decade earlier. He was kind and mild-mannered in a typically midwestern way, and a little naïve despite who he worked for. Harley couldn't understand why a nice man like him wouldn't just leave Gotham and start over somewhere, and the only reason she could come up with was that he genuinely thought he was the only thing keeping Freddi Maroni alive, just as she'd suspected.

Just before he left at his usual time, he offered her his hand. "I'm Joe, by the way. Joe Herdberg."

Harley beamed at him and shook his hand. "Ann Smiley," she replied. "It's really nice to meet you, Joe."

* * *

When Harley got back to Grin's, she was feeling especially pleased with herself and genuinely looking forward to having a few drinks with Marty and Roxy. Roxy was working on Harley's Astrology chart, and Harley found Roxy's sometimes silly but always well-intentioned company delightful. She might even say she'd made a friend in Roxy, which was a rare thing for Harley.

Harley turned off the engine and was halfway out of the car when she saw the Joker illuminated in the dim light emanating from the lone lamppost in the parking lot. She huffed in annoyance as she stepped out into the lot and pushed the car door shut behind her. It had been a week since she'd seen him, and though she knew she'd have to face him eventually, she'd been hoping for later, giving her time to avoid the devastating complexity he presented for her.

"What are you doing here," she snapped, folding her arms over her chest defensively.

He moved a little closer, and she saw he was in civilian clothes again, black jeans with a hole in the knee and a light grey button-down shirt beneath a dark coat. He was also sporting a fresh cut on his forehead, and she could see black paint sticking to his eyelashes like he'd hastily wiped it away relatively recently. He'd been busy.

"Oh, just uh... checking in," he drawled evasively, prodding the inside of his cheek with his tongue as he rocked back on his heels.

Harley reluctantly stepped closer, resting her hip against the hood of the car as she lifted a wary eyebrow.

"How nice of you," she said flatly, earning herself a smirk. "Well, I'm fine. Thanks for asking."

"Not getting yourself into anymore.. _. trouble_ ," he purred, taking a purposeful step closer.

Harley tried to maintain an expression of suspicious indifference, even as a pleasant shiver skated over her skin. She pursed her lips, attempting to ignore her physical reaction to him as he shifted closer, which only became more difficult when he reached up to push her hair over her shoulder, his thumb grazing the side of her neck, sending goosebumps racing along her arms.

She tightened her arms over her chest and glared at him as his fingers drifted down her neck, resting briefly on her pulse. She knew he could feel it throbbing against his thumb, but his smirk had disappeared, replaced with something dark and thoughtful and... curious.

 _Fuck it_ , Harley thought, and grabbed him by the front of his coat, pulling his head down to hers.

He wrapped one arm around her waist, squeezing her closer as his hand snuck into her hair to hold the back of her head. He kissed her deeply, and without the frantic urgency of their previous encounter, and Harley allowed herself to lean into him as he backed her up against the car, pinning her to it with his body.

Harley's hands slid from his lapels down his chest to his stomach, the urge to feel his skin against hers so she could have him  _properly_  so strong that she almost suggested they go up to her room. But that was  _not_  on the cards. Instead, she focused on what she could achieve out there, in the parking lot, where there was no invitation and no bed to legitimize what was happening.

Then he released her waist in favor of squeezing her ass and pushing his hips into hers so Harley could feel his growing arousal. It made her hum weakly into his mouth, and he did it again, his tongue rolling lazily against hers.

Harley pulled back abruptly, knowing what needed to be done, and slid out from under him. His low growl of frustration almost made her laugh as she moved a few feet away to fling open the Mercedes' back door, and when she looked back at him expectantly, he was glowering at her in the darkness.

"Come on," she said breathlessly and ducked into the car.

Harley slid backward across the cracked leather seats until her shoulders hit the opposite door. She began unbuttoning her jeans, her fingers trembling pathetically as she listened to him crunch through the gravel before he appeared in the open door, his expression grim. He clambered into the backseat and pulled the door shut behind him, then lifted his hips and unfastened his belt while Harley tugged her jeans and underwear down as far as her thigh high boots would allow. A second later, he was crawling on top of her, planting one hand on the seat beside her as they tried to fit their bodies together in the cramped space. Harley's heart was slamming against her breastbone as she peered up at him in the darkness, finding his eye but feeling entirely in the dark about what going through his mind as he stared grimly down at her. Then he popped two of his fingers in his mouth to wet them and reached between her legs to stroke her quickly. Harley turned her face into the seat, in part to hide a quiet sound of pleasure from him, in part so she wouldn't have to look at him when he felt how wet she already was.

There were a few seconds of awkward shifting and fumbling before Harley could feel him pressed against her entrance, and when he finally pushed inside her, she did her best to swallow a needy whine that tried to escape her throat.

He moved slowly at first, his hand on Harley's hip pulling her body up to meet his as she pawed impatiently at his back, but soon he found a more satisfying rhythm that had the back of her head repeatedly bumping against the door as their hips snapped together. The sounds of their heavy breathing mingling with the squeaking of the seats while the car rocked back and forth should have been comical, but Harley was oblivious to all of it, and too soon she could feel the tension in his back and knew he was close. She reached between them to help herself along, and with the next snap of his hips, she arched up off the seat, muffling a shout into his shoulder as she came. He exhaled roughly into her hair a moment later, and his hips stilled.

There were a few beats of silence as they recovered, and Harley found herself reaching up to touch his throat, feeling his pulse racing beneath her thumb like he'd done to her earlier.

He cleared his throat and sat back on his heels, tucking himself back into his pants and zipping them up again.

Harley felt dazed and rubbery as she watched him fasten his belt, and all she could think was, huh, so he _never_  wears boxers. He probably thinks they're a waste of time.

He glanced up at her and licked his lips, looking as if he might say something as he reached behind him to open the door. But apparently, he thought better of it and clambered out of the car. She heard the gravel crunch as he loped away into the night, leaving her there to clean herself up.

Harley sighed as she pulled her jeans up and refastened them. "Shit," she muttered.

* * *

In a cruel twist of fate, the front page of the next morning's Gotham Gazette read:

_"MAD LOVE: THE JOKER, HARLEY QUINN, AND ARKHAM ASYLUM"_

It was accompanied by both of their pictures, taken from CCTV footage, both of them looking dangerous and deranged in warpaint.

Harley reluctantly read the story while lounging in bed, unable to decide if the whole thing was hilarious or if something needed to be done about Vicki Vale.

' _Dr Harleen Quinzel had never been arrested; in fact, she had never received so much as a parking ticket. She was top of her class at Gotham University, received a PhD in Clinical Psychology by age twenty-seven, and has been published over one hundred times in the last year alone. It's an impressive record, all of it thrown away for her love of the man known only as, the Joker.'_

What a  _joke_.

_'This reporter has extensively interviewed the men and women who knew Harleen Quinzel best, and those that were closest to her say she began acting strange when she started treating the Joker at Arkham. "She would come in late, look messy, it was very unlike her," says Rosa Sanchez, head nurse at Arkham. "I heard it was a boy problem, but I could never have imagined that boy was the Joker."_

_'"There is certainly something else behind this," says Harley Quinn's mentor and PhD advisor, Dr Joan Leland, currently acting director of Arkham. "She's a rational person, not violent, certainly not capable of murder. I believe there must be something like Stockholm Syndrome at play, which is very rare. But unfortunately, Harleen will still have to answer for the crimes she has committed."'_

"Cunt," Harley muttered but continued reading the piece. Vale painted her as a lonely but ambitious young woman who was captivated by the Joker's animal magnetism and tragically manipulated into loving him.

Vale even had the audacity to quote Harley's notes about him selectively.

' _The good doctor writes in her own words, almost like a diary: "he is charming and intelligent in a fashion that suggests genuine psychopathy, though unlike other classically attractive male psychopaths (sic: Ted Bundy) he chooses to act through a character instead of his own given characteristics, suggesting higher functioning, higher intelligence, and a higher capacity for impulse control that makes him all the more dangerous."'_

Like a diary! It was disgusting and far beyond internalized misogyny. Harley was capable of making her own terrible choices, thank you very much. She didn't need to be tricked into loving a psychopath to make them.

The problem was, even if Vale was way off, she wasn't _entirely_  wrong. Harley had been captivated by him  _intellectually_ , and she had thrown away her career when he provided her with the opportunity to do so. And now, after she'd broken through much of the mysticism he built around himself, now she was sleeping with him.  _Not_  that she intended to let it happen again. She wasn't in love, and she wasn't his puppet, but she was undoubtedly walking a tightrope that did not look good.

Now Harley was trying to build something for herself, and he was nothing but a distraction.

Harley got dressed and spent the afternoon training with Ralphie, pouring her energy into pushing herself to the brink physically. Later she went to the dive bar Downtown where she made friendly chit-chat with Joe the driver, learning more about his affable, good-natured personality as he skirted the issue of his job.

But Harley needed to make faster headway with him, and the next night she made it increasingly clear that she was drinking to decompress from a stressful work environment, which Joe, of course, completely understood.

"I hear you," he said solemnly after Harley expressed that she felt she couldn't escape her job. "Every day is like Groundhog Day. I keep hoping it will get better, but there's always something new."

"Exactly," Harley replied glumly, looking into her beer but also watching him out of the corner of her eye. "A new hurdle to overcome, a new order to carry out, a new threat..."

Joe was quiet as he frowned at her, likely wondering - as someone familiar with the mafia's orders and threats - what  _she_  was being asked to carry out and by whom.

Harley didn't have a concrete backstory to give him yet, but making Joe feel like they were in the same boat was almost guaranteed to endear him to her.

She sent him a strained smile and raised her glass.

"But hey, at least we've got each other, right?" And Joe clinked his glass against hers in solidarity, his expression turning thoughtful.

The next night Harley hit pay dirt. Joe arrived looking frazzled, his tie askew and his shirt stained with brown-green splotches that looked like he'd tried and failed to rinse out vomit. Harley offered him a tight smile when he sat down next to her and ordered a beer.

"Rough day?" she asked, patting him affectionately on the shoulder as he gulped down a third of his beer.

"I don't think I can do this anymore," he said, shaking his head. "It's getting to be too much."

"Joe," Harley said carefully. "What is it you do exactly?"

He held back at first, looking around the bar nervously before finally meeting Harley's eye.

"I work for a wealthy family," he explained like he was admitting to some heinous crime. "Their son is a drug addict, and he refuses to get treatment. At first, I was just the family's driver, and it was like, wow, they've got this fucked up kid, and they're just letting him slowly kill himself, but it's none of my business, right? Then... things kind of change a little in the family and they just want me to work for the son. He needs to be looked after, they said, and they think I'm a guy they can trust. I said no, but these people, they're relentless. They made me an offer I couldn't refuse."

Harley licked her lips, considering her next words carefully. "So you're like, a babysitter for a rich drug addict?"

Joe laughed hoarsely. "Ann, I know it sounds messed up, but this kid has no one. If I left him, I don't think they would even bother to replace me. They'd just let him kill himself."

"That's awful," Harley said sadly, and she meant it.

Joe continued to vent, telling her about the fight he'd had with his charge over a speedball. Joe had deemed the dose lethal, but the 'kid' shot it up anyway, and Joe had to clean up the vomit, blood, and shit that followed.

In only a few short days, Harley had established enough trust with Joe that he felt he could tell her things she was sure he did not disclose to anyone else who happened to be in his life. He told her all about his dealings with Freddi Maroni, including Freddi's complicated relationship with his mostly absentee, resentful father who threw money at Freddi's problems instead of helping him or showing him he loved him.

He never mentioned Freddi or Maroni by name, but by the time midnight rolled around, Harley had learned almost all she needed to know. She also had the beginnings of a new idea for how she would go about breaking down that last barrier to get Joe to admit to her who his clients really were, and then she could work on Freddi himself.

Harley returned to Grin's with a laundry list of questions for Marty, but when she got to the bar, she found Bruno sitting there drinking a scotch.

"Hey, Harley Quinn," Bruno greeted her, making Harley roll her eyes.

"And here I was hoping that wouldn't stick," she sighed, hopping up onto the barstool beside Bruno. "I haven't seen you in a while. How are you?"

He chuckled incredulously, like someone asking after him was a novel concept. "I'm alright, Harley, I'm alright," he paused. "Could use your help on something, though."

"Oh really," Harley replied flatly, already knowing that whatever Bruno was there for, he had been sent by the Joker. "What does he want now?"

"Come on, Harley," Bruno smirked. "I know you're interested in what happens to Bertinelli. He said you're the one who shot him the other night."

 _"He_  said that?" Harley asked incredulously, immediately interested. "As in you know  _where_  he is?"

"We dug him out of a foxhole last night," Bruno nodded. "Problem is we can't get him to give up Maroni, and that's why we're thinking you could help since you're so good at getting people to talk." He glanced back at Marty before shooting Harley a pointed look, suggesting he knew she'd been prying information out of him all week.

"The Joker can't get him to talk?" she shifted uncomfortably.

"The boss is busy with a few things," Bruno replied evasively. "You're the best we got, Harley."

"So the Joker won't be there?" She asked, toying with the pussycat bow at her throat. If  _he_  wasn't there and she could get information out of Bertinelli, then going with Bruno wouldn't  _technically_  qualify as a distraction. In fact, it could be incredibly helpful.

"Nope," Bruno confirmed. "We got Franco at a place near South Chan. You come talk to him, see what you can do. I'll drive you back myself."

"Alright," Harley agreed, standing and pulling her coat back on. "But I charge five grand for one-hour consultations."

"Christ, that's steep," Bruno laughed.

Harley shrugged. "I know what I'm worth."

"So how ya been?" He asked as they walked to his Audi, parked on the street in front of the club. "I hear you've been boxing, huh?"

"What else am I going to do with myself?" Harley waited for Bruno to unlock the car then climbed inside and pulled on her seatbelt. She flashed back to the night she'd been taken home from the pier in Bruno's car almost a month earlier. They'd taken her there to question her about Penguin. Now she was being taken to the same part of town in the same car to question someone  _for them_.

"How's things goin' with Freddi Maroni's driver?" Bruno asked as he turned the key in the ignition and Elvis's soft croon floated through the speakers.

Harley had already prepared herself for this conversation and didn't hesitate when she replied: "Monotonous. Freddi never leaves the house, and the driver has no life outside of keeping him alive."

"So what's your professional opinion of this guy?" Bruno asked, pulling onto the freeway and heading south.

"Lonely. Trapped in a bad situation by his great capacity for kindness," Harley replied quickly. "Or he could be sexually abusing Freddi. Carers taking advantage of people who can't look after themselves is depressingly common."

"Jesus," Bruno muttered. "Make sure you let me know if anything changes."

Harley nodded mutely. She had come to believe that Bruno devised this Freddi Maroni driver business to keep her occupied while the Joker worked on something more significant.  _Maybe_  they thought she could bring them something helpful, but they weren't relying on her. Whatever else was going on - something to do with Penguin, Maroni or just general chaos and destruction - Harley was being kept in the dark.

It was time to get some answers.

"Why does the Joker want Penguin to take over the mob?" She asked, playing innocent. "That's what this is all about right? Taking out the chain of command for Penguin? It's not like the Joker wants to be in charge, but I would have thought he'd want to take the whole system down not just install someone else."

Instead of feeding her his usual line about not asking questions, Bruno remained intriguingly silent as he thought over his answer.

"You're the one who told us Penguin's a loose cannon," he said at length. "Maroni is organized, like a well-oiled machine, better organized than Carmine ever was. But Penguin? He's a mess. If he's in charge, everything becomes—"

"Chaos," Harley cut him off, her eyes narrowing. She had never thought she'd hear Bruno parrot a Joker talking point.

"Yeah," Bruno confirmed flatly. "Chaos is fair, Harley. When ya rip everything else away, you're left with the truth of the world."

Harley's face softened, remembering Marty's story about what had happened to Bruno's wife and daughter, and then she knew she'd heard the line about chaos being ' _fair_ ' before.

Two months earlier at Arkham, sitting across from the Joker as he told her what he'd done to Harvey Dent, off the record.

_I just pointed out that chaos is fair, in a world where fairness does not otherwise exist. He was already there on the precipice..._

She felt a little sick at the thought that this same twisted line of logic had co-opted more than one grieving man, and she wondered how many more were out there, and what other tricks the Joker had used on them.

"Why would we want to see the truth of the world if it's terrible?" Harley asked quietly. "Surely not so the  _Joker_  can make it better."

"Cause the longer people live this lie, the worse it gets," Bruno replied evenly. "The bastards at the top become more powerful, while the bastards at the bottom get weaker." He glanced at her wearily. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what," Harley turned to look out the window.

"Lika ya think I've been drinking the Kool-Aid," he chuckled. "Maybe I have. Anyway, ain't you the one who threw away what's supposed to be a good life cause you were sick of the bullshit?"

Harley shrugged. "I wouldn't put it that way. More like I was suffocating, and when I was shown a way out, I took it."

"He offered you that way out?" Bruno smirked knowingly.

"He's not some kind of  _messiah_ here to  _save_  us all," Harley snapped, irritated and even disappointed in Bruno. "He thinks he is because he's a fucking narcissist, and he's so convinced of his infallibility that he convinces other people it's the truth. He's a _psychopath._ It's what they  _do_. Does he make several valid points about our society's problems? Yes. Is he going to save us all by installing a lunatic to run the mob and showing people that the pillars of our society can't be trusted? No fucking way! And Bruno, that's the point you're sorely missing. He believes all of his own bullshit, and it's his  _biggest_  weakness. It's what took him down before, and it'll take him down again."

Her cheeks had grown warm in her frustration, which was, undoubtedly, partially because she'd been publically painted as a fool who drank the Joker Kool-Aid too. She hadn't even been afforded an intellectual argument because she was a woman, and she had to be  _in love_ with him to make it a good story.

"You're probably right," Bruno conceded, much to Harley's surprise. He glanced at her calmly. "Good thing he's got you around to point that out to him. He pays attention to you, ya know?"

Harley huffed impatiently. "I don't know what you're talking about. He's emotionally, chemically, and  _structurally_ incapable of accepting when he's wrong no matter  _who_  tells him he is."

"Maybe, but you..." He shook his head, reluctantly. "I shouldn't be telling you this."

"What?" Harley asked, her burning curiosity outmatching her desire for inner strength.

"Nah," Bruno looked at her quickly. "You don't wanna know what I think."

Harley collapsed back into the soft leather seat and closed her eyes. For once, she agreed that she probably did not want or need to know. She disliked this entire conversation and what it implied.

Eventually, Bruno asked her if Roxy had offered to do her star chart yet and Harley laughed quietly, feeling her irritation fade as he shared what had been in the chart Roxy did for him.

They got off the freeway at South Channel but didn't pass onto the island itself. Instead, they headed north to an East Gotham neighborhood that didn't appear to have a name and was populated by condemned warehouses.

Harley had Bruno stop at the first gas station she saw where she bought a large bottle of diet coke, earning an amused look from Bruno when she climbed back in the car.

"Thirsty?"

Harley grinned. "You'll see."

Bruno navigated the maze of warehouses with his lips pursed, like he was trying not to get lost, and finally parked beside a building with long windows, most of which were still intact though dirty and impossible to see through. They walked around the side of the warehouse to a fire exit that was propped open with a brick, and Bruno banged on the door twice before pushing it open, leading them into the building's large ground floor. The ceilings were high and vaulted, full of pigeons cooing, and the wooden floor was covered in bird droppings, and in the middle of the room was Franco Bertinelli, tied to an office chair as he moaned pathetically.

He was surrounded by three men, one of whom Harley recognized as Sly, the oily thug with a fondness for leather trench coats who'd helped 'kidnap' her for Cassamento. They were all armed with high-powered assault rifles, the same kind the Sullivans protecting Bertinelli had been wielding. Usually, the Joker's men worked with an assortment of mismatched weapons ranging from revolvers to sawn-off shotguns to modified handguns, making Harley wonder if they'd stolen these guns from Bertinelli's protectors when they caught him.

"Well, if it isn't Harley Quinn," Sly smirked as Harley and Bruno approached. "What the fuck are you doin' here, huh?"

Harley's eyes narrowed, and she walked past Bertinelli until she was face to face with Sly. He continued to smirk down at her like he was enjoying her irritation, and she could see there was another snarky comment on the tip of his tongue that she was just  _not_  in the mood to hear.

She punched Sly in the nose, at just the right angle to break it as Ralphie'd taught her, and blood began to pour down Sly's mouth and chin. He covered his bleeding face with both hands, glaring at Harley as she shook out her fist to relieve the pins and needles skating over her knuckles.

"You fuckin' bitch!"

"Sly, don't be so fuckin' stupid," Bruno advised him drily. "Harley's here to help. The boss asked her to."

This seemed to be enough to make Sly slink back, grumbling unhappily to himself and using his shirt to staunch his bleeding nose.

Harley pulled out the elastic band holding her braided hair together and raked her fingers through the wavy strands as they settled around her shoulders. She had considered warpaint, but she sensed appearing as she had the first time Bertinelli encountered her would be more effective for what she had in mind. She stepped in front of the swivel chair he was currently tied to and set the bottle of soda on the floor, planting her hands on her hips as she surveyed the damage.

Bertinelli's face was a Rorschach test of black and purple bruises, cuts and scrapes and ugly swelling. His beard had grown out like he'd not been able or allowed to shave in weeks, and Harley recognized his suit as the same one he had on the night she'd shot him over a week earlier, the hole in his right pant leg confirming as much. His shirt was torn and stained with blood both fresh and dried, and the back of one of his hands had a series of crusty, mottled wounds. Beside the chair was a power drill, explaining what had happened to his hand, and a towel covered in blood, ostensibly for Bertinelli's torturers to wipe their hands on when they were done with him.

"Shit," Harley said, bending down to rest her hands on Bertinelli's forearms so she could look him in the eye. "Franco, you don't look so good."

His left eye was swollen shut but his right flew open at the sound of her voice, and a guttural moan ripped out of his throat.

"Peaches!"

"My name is Harley," she corrected him. "And don't worry, I'm just here to talk. Do I look like I'd want to hurt you, Franco? I'm just a nice, normal lady who wants to talk."

"You were the one," he moaned miserably. "You were the one with the fuckin' clown."

"Don't worry Franco. I won't let the Joker hurt you," Harley smiled sweetly. "But you need to talk to me. Wouldn't you rather talk to me instead of him?"

He made a terrible warbling sound that echoed around the room. "I don't know anything!" He cried. "I swear I don't know where Sal is, I swear! I  _swear_!"

Harley sighed and watched him cry, fat tears getting caught in the fleshy lines of his swollen face.

"I believe you, Franco," she said at length, and she heard Sly snort across the room. "Franco, do you think _Sofie_  would know where to find Sal?"

The crying instantly stopped, and Bertinelli stared up at Harley, his one good eye darting around her face. "She... no, why would Sofie know?"

"You mean because Sal doesn't trust her?" Harley pushed, aware of the Joker's men shooting each other confused looks. "Even though  _Sofie_  is in charge of all the money?"

"No way he told her, no way," Bertinelli sniffed and shuddered, and for the first time, he seemed somewhat coherent. "She's only in charge of the money cause she makes em' feel safe. They're all like her in their fuckin' penthouses and their fancy schools. But Sal knows she's got a right to what he claims is his. He'd never tell her where he's hidin' out."

Harley absorbed this information, knowing it was important. She also knew she couldn't continue this line of questioning with Bruno and Sly watching her curiously.

"Alright, Franco," she said, straightening up. "I know you don't  _think_  you know where Sal is, but sometimes people don't realize that they know things. It just takes a little  _push_  to get them to realize it."

Bertinelli wailed unhappily, knowing this was not going to go well for him.

"So I'm going to give you a push. Let's call it  _motivation_..." She picked up the bloodied hand towel and shook it out. "I'll give you motivation, and you tell me anything you think could help me find Sal."

He made another horrible, guttural sound like an animal dying, and it only grew louder when Harley kicked him in the chest, knocking the chair over. Bertinelli landed on his back, his legs flailing in the air as Harley circled the chair and kneeled beside his head. He was thrashing violently, nearly tipping the chair onto its side, and Harley glanced up at the Joker's men who were watching her work with wide eyes.

"Can I get a little help here?" She complained, gesturing to their hysterical victim as she unscrewed the cap on the bottle of soda she'd brought with her.

They jumped to attention, Bruno taking Bertinelli's legs, while Sly and a thug with a teardrop tattooed under his left eye squatted on either side of her to hold Bertinelli's arms.

"First try," Harley cooed, laying the towel over Bertinelli's face before she began pouring soda over it, waterboarding him with the fizzy drink.

At first, Bertinelli just twitched and grunted, confused by what was happening to him as the towel covering his face absorbed the liquid. That changed once the towel was soaked through and blocking his nose and mouth, the constant stream of soda making him feel like he was drowning in diet coke, the carbonation burning the delicate membranes in his nostrils and at the back of his throat. He started to thrash hard, nearly throwing Bruno and Sly off as he wailed and choked like a dying animal.

"Jesus Christ," Sly muttered under his breath, sounding unnerved.

Harley sat back, removing the wet towel from Bertinelli's face, and he started to hack and cough and gasp for air, his corpulent body convulsing.

"Who knows where Sal is?" Harley asked him quietly, her voice soothing instead of demanding. "Don't forget, Franco.  _Sal_  doesn't care about Sofie.  _Sal_  isn't the one you need to protect."

He couldn't speak to respond, so Harley covered his face with the towel again, stuffing the cloth in his mouth before she started pouring the soda over him while the Joker's goons struggled to hold his violently thrashing body down.

"Tell me who knows where Sal is," she demanded coldly when she'd released him a second time.

Bertinelli was gasping for air, looking deranged and blind in panic.

"Bertie!" He cried miserably. "Bertie might know! Sofie brought him in, but he's Maroni's guy! Bertie!"

It sounded like gibberish, but Harley knew exactly what he meant, and it sent a delighted shiver rolling over her shoulders.

She remembered the Crowne Gala.

She remembered Bertrum Crowne and Sofia Falcone dancing together.

She remembered Crowne and Sofia with Maroni at the Ritz.

 _Bertie_  might know.

Because Bertrum Crowne was laundering the mob's money under Sofia Falcone's instructions.

Harley pulled her gun from the holster at her side and shot Bertinelli in the head before he could say anything else.

"What... the _fuck_!" Sly shouted, reeling backward. There were fragments of blood and bone stuck to the side of his face.

Harley rose to her feet and tucked the Beretta away. "You heard him. He didn't know anything useful."

"Man, that was some fucked up shit," the tattooed thug grinned, looking impressed. "Girl, where you learn to fuck with people like that?"

"I read it in a book," Harley shrugged.

"That must be some kinda fucked up book," he cackled.

"Boss isn't going to be happy about this," Sly complained to Bruno, slapping away the blood clinging to his cheek. "He always wants a chance to talk to em', even after you."

Harley's eyebrows lifted in surprise that  _Bruno_  had been the one working with the power drill.

"Padre, if Sly complains again I want ya to shoot him," Bruno said to the tattooed man, who grinned, showing off a silver grill.

"You got it, boss."

"You ain't my fuckin' boss, Bruno," Sly started to get agitated. "And just because—"

Sly was cut off by the wailing of a police siren in the distance, but getting louder and louder. Padre and the third goon raised their weapons, looking to Bruno for direction as he drew his gun from the holster under his armpit. No one moved or said anything as they waited to see what would happen. The siren continued to get louder until it was almost ear-splittingly shrill, and then red and blue lights were flashing through the murky windows as a police cruiser shot down the street outside before crashing into the side of the warehouse,

The whole building quivered around them, and the pigeons in the ceiling went flying as bird shit rained down from above. Bruno and the others prepared to fight, but then Harley heard something that made her blood run cold: the unmistakable, metallic whirring of the Batman's vehicle of choice.

And it was getting closer - it was  _chasing_  the police cruiser.

"Shit," she hissed, quickly taking stock of the situation. She looked to Bruno as the whirring sound grew louder, almost right outside. "Take the body to Penguin," she ordered Bruno, shrugging out of her coat and tossing it to him. "The  _Batman_  is here."

"Ah, fuck!" Sly immediately squatted down and began slicing the zip ties around Bertinelli's wrists and ankles, the third thug kneeling beside him to help, and together they lifted Bertinelli by the armpits and dragged him toward the fire exit.

Outside, the Batpod's whirring and the sirens stopped, and a second later deranged, inhuman laughter ripped through the silence.

_The Joker._

Harley clenched her hands into fists as the laughter continued over angry grunts and the sound of fists connecting with flesh.

"I need to borrow that," Harley pointed to Padre's assault rifle, and he handed it over, his eyes wide as she wedged it under her arm looped her finger over the trigger.

"Harley, what the hell are you gonna do?" Bruno demanded, still holding her coat.

"Take Bertinelli to Penguin!" Harley snapped, turning away with  _very_  little idea what she was going to do as she shot out the window in front of her.

Outside it had started snowing, light flakes drifting peacefully onto the darkened street lit by a lone orange light. Only ten or so yards from where Harley stood was the police cruiser that had crashed into the side of the warehouse. The driver's door was open, and the Batman was struggling with the Joker there, half his body still inside the cruiser, his legs dangling into the street as the Batman beat the ever-living shit out of him.

Harley watched the Batman pull back his fist, and it hung in the air for a moment, shaking before he slammed it down  _hard_. She couldn't see the Joker's face, but the laughter stopped as he sputtered and coughed before picking it up again, weaker this time. The Batman hit him again, roaring mindlessly as he attacked his greatest foe.

 _"Hey!"_  She screamed, firing a round of bullets into the street to get the Batman's attention. " _Hey_!" She stomped forward, holding down the trigger and letting round after round pound into the asphalt.

The Batman looked over his shoulder and must have considered Harley advancing on him with an assault rifle enough of a threat to turn and face her completely.

She  _should_  have shot him then and finished this for good, but her finger hesitated on the trigger, just long enough for the Batman to throw up his arm and release three silver disks.

One hit Harley right below the collarbone, the other in her forearm, making her drop the gun as she yelped in surprise at the sudden onslaught. She pried out the disk embedded in her chest with her fingertips, but before she could get to her arm the Batman was on top of her.

He backhanded her, making her head snap to the side as pain exploded across the lower half of her face, and before she could recover he wrapped a gloved hand around her throat and lifted her off her feet. His grip tightened, cutting off her access to air, and Harley's lips moved wordlessly as she clawed at his gloved arm, taking no comfort in the knowledge that this was to subdue her, not to kill her.

She looked the Batman in the eye, dark and ringed in black, and she saw certainty there. He had decided who she was and that she did not deserve his sympathy.

 _Good_ , Harley thought, and slammed her arm down on his neck, stabbing him with the sharp disk still protruding from her arm and driving it further into her flesh.

He roared in pain and frustration and released her, and Harley collapsed to the ground, rubbing her throat with one hand as she threw her arm into his knee, making him roar again as the disk in her arm penetrated his suit.

She lost her balance and fell back on her ass, and the Batman followed her down, reaching for her.

There was a loud  _crack_  as the rifle she'd dropped connected with the side of the Batman's head, sending him careening away. Harley looked up to see the Joker behind him, his face a mess of blood and paint, his teeth bared in a feral snarl as he swung at the Batman again. This time the Batman caught the butt of the rifle and yanked the Joker forward, his face colliding with the Bat's fist, and the Joker collapsed into the street.

A swell of righteous indignation flooded Harley as she watched the Joker roll onto his back, grunting as he tried and failed to pull himself up.

She stood up, tore the disk out of her arm, and planted her feet as the Batman stormed back to her. She threw a right hook that he easily blocked, his larger hand closing around her fist. He jabbed left, but she ducked, ripping her hand free before flinging herself into a back handspring. She heard him growl as her foot connected with his face, but she kept going - _hands-feet-hands-feet -_  knowing he was following her.

She stopped short, using the momentum still flowing through her body to kick him in the knee, and she both felt and heard a  _snap_ as her heel connected with the joint. He roared again and threw a punch that landed on her cheek, making Harley rock back on her heels as her teeth rattled. She recovered quicker this time, in time to duck a second blow and then block a third, surprising the Batman enough that he didn't stop her second attempt at a right hook, which landed on his jaw.

His suit let off a fissure of electricity that zapped Harley's hand and zig-zagged up her arm, making her cry out in surprise, and she kicked desperately at his knee again,  _needing to_  make him stop because if she didn't stop him he  _never_  would.

He roared again as her heel connected with his kneecap, and that _SNAP_ she heard before was louder this time. The Batman fell to his knees.

Harley kicked him hard in the chest with a shout, using the strength of her entire body to send him flying backward. He landed on his back, his head rolling to the side on the concrete, and Harley followed him down, landing on his chest as her legs gave out.

He started to reach for her, but she spotted the abandoned rifle beside them and snatched it up faster than the Batman was able to move. Her grip on the gun was shaky at best, and her brain was starting to feel slow, only desperation and hatred keeping her going as she slammed the butt of the rifle into the Batman's face. She did it again, and again, red leaking into her vision as hatred took over. She would kill him to keep them safe. She would kill him, or he would never stop. And she felt like she was trapped in a wind tunnel, hearing herself screaming over the solid smack of rubber and metal colliding.

There were hands on her arms, pulling her back, dragging her away, and she flailed desperately to get free, dropping the gun. Then those hands were on her face, squeezing her cheeks and shaking her violently, and through the wind tunnel a voice saying her name, and through the fog, a pair of brown eyes so dark they were almost black.

There was pain again, a slap across her face, but it helped make the fog dissipate.

"Harley!  _Fuuuck..._ Harley...  _HARLEY!_ "

The Joker's face was inches away from hers, his eyes wild as he shook her again. She sucked in a deep breath as the space around them solidified. The Batman's body, the cop car, the warehouse, the street, the sound of police sirens in the distance.

"C'mon," he snapped, getting unsteadily to his feet and stumbling back to the police cruiser. He didn't offer Harley a hand, but he stopped to take the Batman's pulse, and once he was satisfied he hopped into the driver's seat of the battered police cruiser and slammed the door shut behind him as he reversed away from the wall.

Harley scrambled to her feet and flung the cruiser's back door open before she jumped inside, the door slamming shut just as the Joker put the car in drive and peeled out down the snow-strewn street, swerving unsteadily as he coughed and thumped his chest.

"Are you okay!" Harley demanded, her fingers curling into the metal bars separating the back seat from the front.

He didn't answer her, yanking the wheel hard to the right and grazing a line of cars parked on the street.

"Jesus!" Harley shouted, over the sound of the car's radio squawking about a stolen cruiser in the warehouse district on the Eastside. "Are they looking for this car?" She demanded. "Are they  _tracking_  it!?"

She heard him cough and then gag, and then the car swerved into another line of parked cars, crashing to a stop.

Harley was thrown into the door, her head cracking against the window painfully, making her vision blacken and her ears ring as she scrabbled for the door handle. But it was a police cruiser, and the backdoors didn't open from the inside. She screamed in frustration, slamming her fists against the glass in search of freedom.

The Joker fell out of the front seat, landing on his knees in the light layer of snow. She watched as he dry heaved on all fours, then crawled to the back door where Harley was trapped and fumbled with the latch until the door swung open.

Harley tumbled out of the car, the ringing in her ears making her dizzy as she tried to get her bearings. The Joker had collapsed face first in the snow, so she grabbed him by the back of his shirt and rolled him over, then gathered him up under the armpits as she struggled to her feet. The only car that hadn't been damaged by the crash was a beat-up station wagon with wood paneling, so Harley dragged the Joker toward it, her arms burning with the effort of carrying him.

The station wagon was mercifully unlocked, and Harley threw open the passenger door before attempting to fold the Joker onto the seat. She'd gotten his torso in when he shook her off, pulling himself in the rest of the way. Harley raced around the front of the car and flung herself behind the wheel, the sound of police helicopters in the sky joining the sirens on the ground spurring her on.

The Joker had doubled over, his elbows on his knees as he vomited onto the floor while Harley frantically fished around in his pants pocket, her trembling hand closing around a switchblade. It snapped open, and she set about prying off the steering column beneath the wheel, her hands growing shakier as the sirens and helicopters got closer.

The piece of wood-paneling came apart, exposing a tangle of multicolored wires, and Harley turned to the Joker, who was still doubled over, trying to pull himself together.

"J, which one is it?" She demanded, and when he didn't reply, she grabbed the collar of his shirt and dragged him forcibly over to her until he was eye level with the tangle of wires. "Which one is it!" She nearly screamed.

Moving sluggishly, he parted the web of wires and found one blue and one red while Harley watched impatiently. He held them taught for her to cut through, then tied the ends together, making the car's engine roar to life.

Harley laid her foot down on the gas, her heart pounding madly in her chest as she attempted to drive inconspicuously but also get the hell away from the wrecked police cruiser. They drove in darkness as she searched for the big silver button that turned on the headlights, but even then she had no idea where they were going. She made a right turn and drove straight, reasoning she would leave the warehouse park and find a road at some point.

The Joker was unconscious again, his body splayed across the wide front seat, his head in Harley's lap as she searched for street signs or landmarks.

Finally, they passed the gas station she'd stopped at with Bruno, and she breathed out a sigh of relief as she headed for the freeway, her fingers curling into the Joker's greasy hair for reassurance.

He obviously had a concussion if he was puking and passing out, not surprising after the way he'd been repeatedly hit in the face. As she pulled onto the freeway, Harley tried to wake him up, shaking his shoulder and saying his name— or at least "J"—and after a few minutes, he pulled himself out of her lap, and fell backward into the passenger seat with an unhappy grunt.

"You can't sleep," Harley said weakly, her eyes darting between him and the dark freeway ahead of them. "You have a concussion. I need you to talk to me for a little while."

"Ugh," he groaned gruffly, keeping his eyes closed as he ran a hand over his face. "You're the  _worst_."

 _"I'm_  the worst?" Harley bristled, feeling like she was about to jump out of her skin.

"You... almost  _killed_  him," he grumbled groggily, twisting sideways so he could rest between the door and the seat. "But ya can't even let  _me_  have a concussion. Typical..."

Harley's nostrils flared, and indignation prickled over her scalp. She glanced at him again and only noticed then that he was wearing the blue uniform of a GCPD officer, the shirt untucked from the pants and the top few buttons undone, showing a white undershirt beneath.

So he had been working on one of his  _other_  projects.

"Why the hell did you lead him straight to us?" She demanded, watching him roll his eyes. "I'm serious!" She shouted. "What the fuck was that all about? I don't give a shit what you're up to unless it has something to do with me."

"Oh, it's  _alllllll_  about you," he complained, flapping his hand. "Always about Harley Quinn. Never the  _bigger_  picture."

"Bigger picture," she scoffed, her voice full of emotion. "You pretentious piece of shit."

A whine of laughter got caught in his throat, and he ended up giggling feebly, his eyes closed and chest heaving.

Harley knew she wouldn't get an answer then. That she would have to find out for herself, which was infuriating and not at all surprising. The Batman was his weakness, his blind spot, almost more so than his careless narcissism, but Harley couldn't come up with a single reason why he would have brought the Batman to her other than that he wanted to watch  _her_  deal with him.

Unless it really  _wasn't_  about her at all.

Maybe for once, the Batman had simply caught up with the Joker, an unnerving prospect on its own.

Harley lapsed into silence, focusing on the road and her injuries, which were starting to ache as the adrenaline wore off. The cut on her arm was deep, and her hand was tingling, making her worry she'd sliced through a tendon. The wound on her chest was superficial, but her face was throbbing, and when she tongued her bottom lip she could feel it had swollen up to twice its size, but at least it hadn't split. Her left ear was still buzzing from where her head had cracked against the window, but that was her stupid fault for getting into a car with a man who couldn't stand on two feet, let alone drive.

"Fuck's  _sake_ ," she gasped, glancing out the window to see Gotham's iconic skyline sliding past as they sped down the darkened highway.

* * *

**A/N: Anyone spot the very obscure John le Carre references? Ann Smiley and waterboarding with diet coke. Just putting it out there for disclaimer's sake.**

**Next: Things between Harley and the Joker continue to get complicated, and Harley starts to put her plan in motion.**

**Now for some self-promotion - I wrote a little origin story for the Joker called 'Weightless Spaces,' and it's all up for your reading pleasure now. No relation to this one!**


	16. Chapter 16

The Harlequin.

16.

* * *

It took forty minutes to get to Bruno's, Harley speeding most of the way in a stolen car with the Joker, dressed like a GCPD officer, slumped but conscious in the passenger seat. They formed a silent agreement not to speak to one another, Harley still enraged about being dragged into his love affair with the Batman, the Joker flippant and evasive as always. Harley's anger was in part fuelled by genuine concern for him, the memory of him doubled over in the snow sticking with her cruelly. Proving to her that yes, she was empathetic, it just seemed to be reserved for horrible people.

It was four in the morning by the time she found Bruno's place from memory, the station wagon running on fumes as she pulled up to the curb. The lights were on, and there were four cars she didn't recognize in the driveway, but no sign of Bruno's Audi. She turned the car off and waited a moment, tonguing her swollen lip as she debated her next move.

The Joker saved her from having to decide, kicking the squeaky car door open and loping up the driveway with his shoulders hunched, and after a moment of internal struggle, Harley followed him.

She wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the cold as she waited quietly at the top of the short flight of concrete steps leading to the front door while the Joker knocked four times in what sounded like a secret code. A series of locks and latches clicked and snapped, and the door opened a fraction, a weathered face peering out at them suspiciously. The Joker thrust his hand through the open space and flung the door wide open.

"Outta the way," he muttered, pushing past an overly-tanned man who was built like a linebacker.

Harley pulled the front door shut behind her as she stepped over the threshold, her eyes widening as she took in the drastically different scene laid out in Bruno's living room. The floral furniture and middle-class decor were still in place, but now around fifteen men were sitting on the couches and the floor, their hands busy with wires, duct tape and packs of what looked like dynamite as they assembled what Harley could only assume were bombs. She stopped and stared around the room, not recognizing any of the thugs, and it became clear that there were much  _much_  bigger things in motion than she'd even realized.

The smell of tobacco hung heavily in the air as Harley waded through the men, carefully avoiding the explosive materials lying haphazardly around them. It was like some kind of sick sewing club, except instead of knitting needles and gossip they were making bombs and chain-smoking.

The Joker disappeared down the hall to the bathroom, the door slamming shut behind him while Harley hesitated at the edge of the living room, unsure what to do with herself. She peeked into the kitchen and was confronted with another bizarre sight: the huge man known as Bambi - who she'd last seen fighting the Batman in the rain - was sitting at the kitchen table while Lonnie hovered over him with a scalpel in one hand and tweezers in the other, both of them embedded in Bambi's shoulder like Lonnie was trying to pull something out of the larger man.

She shrank out of the kitchen before either of them could see her, retreating to Bruno's daughter's room where she could be alone. Her thoughts were a jumble, almost impossible to pick apart as she turned on the pink lamp beside the My Little Pony themed twin bed then bent down to look at herself in the child-sized mirror.

Her face didn't look as bad as it felt. Her bottom lip had swollen up where the Batman backhanded her and she had a nice yellow-green bruise forming at the corner of her mouth. There was a small cut on her cheekbone where's she'd taken a punch, and the skin around it was pink and tender when she prodded it. She could only hope it wouldn't swell up too much.

Harley sighed and sat back down on the bed, searching for something to wrap around her arm which had stopped bleeding but hurt like a motherfucker every time she flexed her fingers.

She found a patterned silk scarf among Bruno's dead wife's possessions in the closet and began wrapping it around her arm when she heard the pipes squeal in the bathroom in the next room over. She stopped to listen, her ears straining, and she could make out the sound of the faucet running and water lapping against a basin. She imagined the Joker attempting to clean off the blood and paint caked on his face, and she pressed her lips together as the urge to go in there and confront him washed over her.

She wanted to demand he tell her what the hell was going on. Why were his goons making enough bombs to blow up a city block? Where the hell was Bruno? Why was Lonnie performing minor surgery on Bambi and how the hell had he escaped the MCU anyway?

None of that would go over well, she knew that much, so she sat back down on the small bed and pulled off her long boots, trying to come up with a less confrontational move that would result in answers, or at least distract her from this heavy, horrible feeling that had settled in her chest.

The water in the bathroom turned off as Harley shuffled out of her jeans, leaving them at the foot of the bed. She sat again, prodding her swollen lip with her tongue as she weighed up what she wanted to do with what she should do, and the consequences of both those actions, and in the end she stood and slipped out into the hall, then into the bathroom, pushing the door shut and locking before she turned to face the Joker.

He was examining his face in the mirror above the sink, having stripped down to a blood-stained white undershirt and the navy blue police-issue pants, his feet bare. The police shirt was on the floor, covered in red and black paint. His face did not look good from what Harley could see in the mirror. Not quite elephant man levels of swelling, but a black eye was rapidly forming, and bruises had already sprung up on his forehead and jaw.

His eyes snapped up to meet hers in the mirror, and a tremor of nervousness ran through Harley, one that seemed to suggest she should get the hell out of there, but only made her want to stay.

She held his gaze as she unbuttoned her shirt and let it fall to the floor, his dark eyes never leaving her even when she looked away to turn on the shower. Harley straightened up, painfully aware that he was watching as she undid the clasp of her bra and let it drop to the ground, then slid her underwear down her legs before she climbed into the tub and stepped under the warm spray.

It was strange that he never spoke in moments like this, she thought as she smoothed back her hair, letting the dirt and grit wash away. He was usually so fucking mouthy, and it was only in these very tense, heavy moments when they were alone, and things got  _personal_  that he was quiet and thoughtful, and always watching her closely. Even in the parking lot, he'd not said a word as they'd climbed awkwardly into the back seat like a pair of desperate teenagers.

The shower curtain rattled as he pushed it aside, and she felt the water slosh around her feet as he stepped into the tub behind her. It felt like having a huge, looming shadow on her back, and she closed her eyes, listening to him move closer until he was just behind her, the anticipation of him touching her making her stomach tense.

Harley waited and waited and _waited_  for him to touch her, and when she was on the verge of turning to face him, he finally looped his arm around her waist and pulled her back so she was pressed flush against him. His bruised chin dropped to rest on her shoulder, and Harley let her head fall back against his chest, her fingers drifting over the back of his arm, feeling the sparse hair there as the water poured over them.

She felt his chest expand like he was going to say something but ultimately decided not to. It was annoying, that sphinx-like quality that had her constantly second-guessing and questioning herself. He should have been taunting her for wanting him, or whispering filthy, deviant things to her, or been thoughtlessly violent in how he expressed his desire for her. That was what she would have expected from the Joker. Instead, his lips grazed the side of her neck as his right hand drifted down her stomach to stroke her lightly between her thighs while he held her against him.

Harley's eyes closed as he teased her, her fingers and toes tingling when he lowered his mouth to her shoulder, his wet hair sticking to her cheek. She let herself give in to the lazy build of pleasure, enjoying what felt like a stolen moment more than a moment of any significance. It was a moment to take advantage of, to indulge in with seemingly few consequences. He seemed to share the view that they shouldn't waste it, moving his free hand up to cup her small breast and squeezing it lightly as he continued to stroke her.

Then he released her abruptly, taking hold of her arms and rotating her around to face the wall. Harley braced herself against it and sighed, the cold tiles a relief to her aching face. He scooped her leg up and pinned her knee to the wall, and then his hand was on her hip, pulling her back as he slid into her, making Harley huff quietly into her arm once he was buried inside her.

They found a rhythm together that was rough but more controlled than their previous joinings, which had been quick and desperate. It was far from gentle but more thoroughly pleasurable, their bodies slick and pressed together beneath the warm shower spray. His hands roamed over her, making Harley's whole body vibrate as her fingers curled into fists against the wall.

Then he slipped his hand between her legs again as he pressed his face against the side of her neck, and Harley's head fell back against his shoulder, her lips moving wordlessly as threads of pleasure raced through her abdomen and down her limbs, and a powerful orgasm swept through her, making her gasp weakly. She could feel her body pulsing around him as waves of sensation continued to crash over her, and then he was squeezing her close, his arms wrapping around her fully as he panted into her hair.

Harley's legs nearly buckled when he released her, and she had to turn and lean against the wall to stop herself collapsing.

He slapped a palm on the tiles beside her head, staring hard into her eyes like he was trying to read her mind. Harley didn't know what to do with that look, but she knew she wouldn't be able to tell him what he was trying to understand, even if he asked.

* * *

Alfred blinked hard as he navigated the Towncar down one snow-strewn alley after the other, following the blinking dot on the GPS tracker balanced in the center console. The sun had nearly risen, helping his old eyes sweep the warehouse district's streets, searching for a mass of black in the melting snow.

After the night Bruce was driven half-insane by Jonathan Crane's fear toxin, Lucius had updated his suit with tech that would alert both he and Alfred if Bruce sustained traumatic bodily injuries requiring their assistance. Alfred had been waiting for that alert to come ever since the night he saved a rambling, terrified Bruce from insanity. He could only hope he was as quick getting to Bruce this time as he had been then.

Then he saw it: the Batpod on its side, and a few feet away from it, the Batman laying flat on his back in the snow, illuminated by the oranges and pinks of dawn.

Alfred slammed on the brakes, his hands shaking as he climbed out of the car and rushed to Bruce's side.

"Oh, bloody hell," he swore, his voice ragged and his eyes stinging as he knelt beside Bruce.

The visible square of his mouth and chin was bruised and bloodied, his cowl sitting crooked and damaged but still obscuring his identity. There was blood in the snow all around his head and shoulders, and a machine gun had been tossed aside, blood on its handle telling Alfred all he needed to know. Bruce had been beaten with the butt of a rifle. Not shot or killed, but bludgeoned.

It was vicious and cruel, but he was still alive. Alfred hauled him up and started for the car, Bruce's cape dragging in the slushy snow.

"I'm too bloody old for this," Alfred snapped at his unconscious charge, his voice full of emotion as he forced open the Towncar's back door.

Bruce had once told Alfred that he suspected the Joker wouldn't kill him, at least not intentionally.

Alfred wasn't about to let that happen either.

* * *

Harley slept hard in Bruno's dead daughter's bed, falling asleep sometime around dawn, a blanket draped over the window keeping most of the light out of the room.

She and the Joker managed to escape the bathroom without attracting the attention of the goons working on his bombs in the living room. Then, once they were locked in the bedroom, there was an awkward moment where they'd stood there staring at one another in the darkness, completely naked and hesitant about what they were supposed to do with a bed and some free time and his obvious arousal already returning.

Then he'd given Harley a hard shove that made her teeth rattle as she fell back on the twin bed, and a few seconds later he was on top of her, fucking her with a slow steadiness that suggested they had time to enjoy themselves.

It had been too dark to see each other properly, so Harley let her hands spread over every inch of him she could reach. The way he'd touched her, sliding his palms up the backs of her legs, grabbing her ass so hard she thought he might have left bruises, groping her back and squeezing her waist as they changed positions, Harley sensed he was as thrilled as she was to finally be able to roll around naked in a bed together after their two fully clothed two encounters to date.

It was late afternoon when Harley woke up to a text from Penguin. His message suggested he was caught between irritation over Bertinelli's body arriving for him to clean up and delight that they were so close to finishing his list. She didn't bother to reply, curling up on her side with her aching face angled against the cool edge of the pillow, her mouth curving into a small smile.

When she woke up again, it was dark outside. Harley rolled over to find the Joker still beside her in the narrow bed, sleeping on his back with an arm braced behind his head. He was still but not quite calm in sleep, a faint crease appearing between his eyebrows like he was frowning. She propped herself up on one elbow to check the time on her phone. It was nearing 9.30 PM, which meant she would need to leave soon so she could talk to Joe.

She kicked off the covers, intending to sneak away before she reconsidered and lowered herself back down, laying her palm flat on the Joker's stomach. She slid her hand over his hip to the top of his thigh, then glanced back at his face before she scooted down the bed and wrapped her lips around him. It didn't take long before he was hard and suitably conscious, his hand wrapped in her hair to guide her movements. Harley slithered back up his body, bracing her hands on his chest as his palms curled around her hips, and she slid down onto him, trying to ignore his eyes gleaming up at her in the darkness.

He came quickly and flipped her roughly onto her back, sinking two fingers inside her and rubbing his thumb over her clit while he pawed and licked her breasts, and too-soon an orgasm ripped through Harley's body like a freight train, making her tremble and sputter as he urged her through it, watching her carefully.

When the waves of pleasure began to subside, Harley sucked in a shaky breath and tried to pull herself together, unsuccessfully ignoring him licking his fingers experimentally before wiping them on the sheets beside her hip. Then he shifted to cover her body with his again, settling between her legs as he slid an arm under her back and lowered his mouth to her collarbone, a spot that seemed to have attracted him and he kept returning to.

"Wait," Harley said breathlessly. She could feel him getting hard  _again,_  and she knew if they started  _again,_  it would be a longer, slower session, and she would miss her meeting with Joe. "I have to go," she forced herself to say as he started palming her breast.

The Joker lifted his head, raising one skeptical eyebrow.

"Uh... where do  _you_  need to go?" He asked, and as he shifted his weight to his elbow the head of his cock nudged against Harley's still-sensitive entrance, making her groan miserably and cover her face with her hands.

_"Stop_ ," she begged, her self-control hanging by a thread.

He immediately withdrew from her, rolling away with a judgy little hum and settling back to watch her search for her clothes.

Harley couldn't look at him as she got dressed. If she looked, there was too great a chance that she would go back to bed with him, and the strength of that urge was fucking terrifying.

Once she was dressed, and her hair was tucked into a respectable but messy braid over her shoulder, she turned to face him again.

"See ya," she said weakly, earning an amused snicker as she turned to leave.

* * *

Harley encountered Bruno in the front room on her way out, hyper-aware of how she must have looked and what he must have thought had happened. His face creased with concern when he handed over her coat and she asked to borrow a car, but instead of making her stick around to explain herself Bruno just gave her the keys to a Jetta parked out front.

Harley drove straight Downtown, a horrible, melancholic numbness sweeping over her, which was made even worse by a pervasive  _giddiness_  that she couldn't shake off.

After those first awkward moments passed and they'd fallen into bed together, it had been so easy and had felt so  _good,_  that Harley hadn't found it hard to give in to her more basic impulses. It still felt complicated, especially when she looked him in the eye, but those concerns could be relegated to the back of her brain, the simplicity of extremely pleasurable sex with an unexpectedly generous and predictably virile partner far preferable to wondering what he was thinking every time he looked at her.

So this giddy feeling worried Harley the longer it stuck with her, and this, in turn, made her miserable.

She pulled up in front of the dive bar, spotting Joe's car down the street, and made her way inside, keeping her head down not to draw attention to her bruised cheek and swollen lip. It hurt much more now than it had originally, irritated by kissing and sucking that had felt too good to pass up at the time.

Inside, the bar was half-full of its usual working-class patrons, gulping down beer as they watched the game, including Joe predictably hunched over the bar with a pint in front of him. Harley slid onto the stool beside him, deciding the best course of action was to play the conversation by ear and maybe make up some bullshit that came to her on the spot. She was too tired and rattled to prepare more than that as she ordered herself a beer.

"Jesus, Ann," Joe said when he caught a glimpse of her face. He kept his concerned voice low as he asked her what had happened.

"Um," Harley brushed a loose lock of hair off her forehead as she tried to come up with a viable answer that would help her ultimate cause. "I don't really want to talk about it, Joe, if that's alright."

He seemed not to know what to say to this, his caring nature making it impossible for him to turn his attention back to the game after seeing her in obvious distress. Harley stared into her beer, allowing her real feelings of melancholic self-reproach to show as Joe looked back and forth between her and the game, and finally, his hand settled on her arm.

"Ann," he said gravely. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"

Harley chuckled drily. "Oh Joe," she said unhappily. "You have no idea."

"You can talk to me, Ann," Joe insisted. Because Joe needed to help people, and the person in his life truly in need of help had rejected him.

But rejection didn't deter Joe; it only made him more desperate to fix a problem.

Harley could work with that. In fact, she could do a lot with Joe's unchecked need to  _help_.

"I have to go," she said abruptly, leaving her mostly full pint on the bar as she stood up. "I'll see you tomorrow," she added, knowing there was no way in hell Joe wouldn't be there now that he knew there would be someone who needed his help waiting for him.

On the drive back to Grin's, Harley started piecing together a shitty plan. She was still alive thanks to a few shitty plans, so it seemed to be a winning strategy. By the time she got back to Grin's, that shitty plan had morphed into an ambitious concept, based partially on what she'd learned from Bernelli the night before. It wasn't just a strategy for how to deal with Joe and Freddi - though they were integral to it - but one that would separate her from the Joker's orbit. And then, finally, she would be free of the constraints she'd been so desperate to shake off.

And it all came down to one person.

Sofie Falcone.

Sofia Falcone, the money laundering daughter of Gotham's greatest gangster. A woman many powerful people believed should be in charge. A woman who wasn't satisfied with the empire she'd created for herself, who wanted something more—something  _different_ —just like Harley did.

First, Harley needed more data. Second, she needed to get herself in a room with Sofia Falcone. She had the information to get her there at her fingertips, and once she broke through the rest of Joe's defenses, she would have the means to get there too. At the rate they were going, that wouldn't take long.

As she crossed the bar, Harley tried to tame her hair, which was wild and voluminous after having the Joker's fingers tangled in it for hours, and hopped up on her usual barstool, giving Marty a weak smile. She wasn't in the mood for small talk, and she hoped he would appreciate the gravity of her situation.

"Fuckin' hell, Harley," Marty laughed, eyeing her big hair and bruised face as he started making her a drink. "What the fuck happened to you?"

Harley leaned forward as Marty put the drink in front of her. "I need a favor, Marty," she said, only just loudly enough for him to hear her over the music.

Marty's forehead wrinkled, and she could see he was worrying that the Joker had done this to her face, and now she was putting him in an awkward situation.

"It's not about him," Harley said quickly. "And not about this either," she gestured to her bruises. "But I need to know this will stay between us."

Marty sucked on a molar thoughtfully as he considered her request, and eventually, he relented, nodding silently.

"I need to know everything you can tell me about Sofia Falcone," Harley said gravely, and Marty's eyebrows jumped up in surprise.

"What the  _fuck_  do ya need to know about her for?" He demanded, looking scandalized.

"Does it matter?" Harley replied, taking note of how conflicted he looked. She didn't have time for this.  _"_ _Marty! **"**_  She snapped, slamming her fist down on the bar, making him jump.

"Alright, alright, calm down El Chapo," he grumbled, massaging his chest as he shot her a nervous look. "Reign in that temper of yours, huh? What is it ya wanna know?"

Harley licked her lips, debating her first question. "Do you know her?"

"Met her a few times," Marty shrugged. "When she was younger, not since she's been back."

"This whole socialite designer thing," Harley waved her hand flippantly. "Do you buy it?"

Marty shrugged. "As far as I know she's above board these days, but who the fuck knows what goes on in Midtown. They wipe their asses with money, why would they need to get involved with business down here?"

Harley remembered his story about immigrants forming gangs while Gotham's rich and powerful reigned over them, and she knew Marty had a blind spot when it came to Gotham's wealthiest citizens. He viewed them as not  _needing_  corruption because they already had everything he never had.

"Before she left, what was she like?" Harley asked slowly. "What did she  _do?_ "

Marty sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he thought back. "She was a mob princess, spoiled by her father, just like her brothers. Got sent to a fancy college and when she came back, her father tried to keep her away from the business." He pursed his lips. "But she weren't happy about it. Everyone knew she was, ya know, interfering. It was a problem. Then she took off to Italy for a few years, built up her fashion empire, I suppose. Came back earlier this year with a husband and kids."

Harley sat back, cataloging this information alongside what she already knew.

"What happened to her brothers?" she asked carefully.

"Oh, Jesus," Marty rolled his eyes. "Well, Mario's an idiot. Everyone knew it, so it was no surprise when Dent put him away for money laundering just after Carmine went to Arkham. Maroni probably had a hand in it to keep him from challenging him."

"And the other one?" Harley pushed.

"Alberto, very odd fish," Marty continued, making a face. "He was the youngest. Kind of a skinny weirdo, always hanging around in the background. No idea what's happened to him."

"Right," Harley nodded, mulling these facts over. Then she smiled gratefully at Marty and touched his hand over the bar.

"Thank you, Marty," she said, meaning it, and he turned bashful. "Thank you for trusting me," she added. "I won't forget it."

Back in her room, Harley took a much-needed shower, washing away the musky, male smell of the Joker, though she couldn't wash away the hickey he'd left on her collarbone. A hickey.  _Really?_ When she climbed into bed, her melancholy was fading, and the distracting giddiness over the Joker was fading too, and she fell asleep quickly, knowing precisely what she would do next.

* * *

The next day, Harley trained for most of the afternoon with Ralphie. Now that there was part of a plan laid out in front of her, she could see herself carrying it out. It could be argued this plan was a continuation of her academic and work life, climbing the ladder to success. But this time she wasn't climbing straight up with a destination at the top. This was more like attempting to scale a volcano. Difficult, dangerous, complicated, and at the top, she would either throw herself in or... who the hell even knew what could happen.

Ralphie's hands were covered in punching pads as he encouraged Harley to hit and kick him harder, to be faster, to dodge quicker, to be more creative in how she attacked him. She knew the intensity of her focus was partially to distract herself from certain  _unfortunate_  thoughts, and it turned out, kicking the shit out of a punching bag was even better for that than gymnastics.

"Nice...  _nice_  one, Harley. Give me that right hook, come on, higher! Harder!" Ralphie enthused. But then his attention was drawn to something over Harley's shoulder, and his hands fell to his sides, just in time for Harley's fist to crash into the side of his face.

"Oh, shit!" Harley exclaimed, trying not to laugh as Ralphie swore and rubbed his face where she'd hit him, but his eyes were still trained on the other side of the room, nervous in a way a man his size should never be.

Harley looked over her shoulder and wished she could have been more surprised to see the Joker there, smirking nastily as he loped across the room with his weird slithering gate. He was wearing the full purple suit, his face freshly painted and his hair bright green, and it was so absurd in broad daylight that Harley didn't have a hard time projecting irritated and unimpressed as he approached her.

"What do  _you_  want?" She asked coldly as he braced his arms on the boxing ring's ropes.

His eyes rolled over her, from her sneakers to her gym clothes to her sweaty ponytail, then darted sideways to Ralphie. He twitched his head toward the exit. "Scram," he snapped.

Harley rolled her eyes and apologized to Ralphie again, hoping he knew she meant for punching him  _and_  for making him deal with a psychotic clown.

" _Wow,_ " the Joker drawled once Ralphie was gone. He ducked under the ropes and joined Harley in the ring, prodding his scars with his tongue as he took a few cautious steps toward her. "You've  _really_  got these guys wrapped around your little finger."

"I don't know what you mean," Harley said flatly, glad he'd left a few feet between them even if something in his eyes was more...  _salacious_  than usual.

"Oh,  _no,_ " he snorted, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Of  _course,_  you don't."

"What do you want," Harley asked again, letting her arms drop out of the defensive position over her chest so she could loosen the tape wrapped around her knuckles.

The Joker pulled an iPhone from his pocket and swiped the screen with his thumb, his eyes lingering on Harley's face.

_"Tuesday 1st of November,"_  Jim Gordon's voice rattled from the phone's tinny speakers.  _"This is Commissioner Jim Gordon, interviewing Thomas 'Bambi' Sanderson_."

"What..." Harley started to say, but the Joker held up a gloved finger for her to be quiet.

_"Mr Sanderson... this is your chance to tell us where the Joker is,"_  Gordon said, his voice calm but strained. " _You've waved your right to a lawyer, but once a new DA is elected I can guarantee you I will do everything in my power to make sure you get a fair deal... if you tell us where he is... now."_

There was only silence as Bambi declined to speak.

_"Bambi, you know how dangerous he is,"_  said a second, more frivolous voice. Harley recognized it as Harvey Bullock, the detective who had come to Arkham when Walsh disappeared.  _"He wants to destroy Gotham. You live here, is that really what you want?"_

It was a weak argument, delivered insincerely, and Bambi only laughed quietly in response.

_"We need to bring him tonight,"_  Gordon insisted. " _Mr Sanderson, I can only do that with your help_."

There was a weighty pause, the recording fizzing to cover the silence, and then Bambi cleared his throat.

_"I dunno where he is,"_  he said clearly. " _He ain't the kinda guy that shares if ya know what I mean."_

_"Why did you attack that club?"_  Bullock jumped in.

_"Cause the Joker told us to,"_  Bambi replied slowly _. "I don't need to know more than that_."

Bullock swore. _"So you can't think for yourself? Is that it? You can't_ -"

" _Bullock!_ " Gordon snapped, cutting the detective off.  _"Mr Sanderson... do you know where Harleen Quinzel is?"_

Hearing her given name sent a shiver rippling over Harley's shoulders, and she folded her arms over her chest again, rubbing her upper arms like she was cold.

There was more crackling silence, and then...

_"No, I don't know her,"_  Bambi said slowly. _"But... he calls her Harley."_

This statement made Harley look up at the Joker again, her expression grim, and he lifted an eyebrow but refrained from smirking.

_"Why was Harleen Quinzel at Grin and Bare It?"_  Bullock pushed.  _"Huh? What's the Joker want with her?"_

_"I dunno_ _. I seen her a few times,"_ Bambi said, his low voice measured and thoughtful. "She's _just around sometimes."_

_"Bambi_ _, have you ever seen Harleen Quinzel commit a crime?"_  Bullock asked quickly.

" _Harvey!_ " Gordon snapped.

_"She helped the Joker with a job in Otisburg once,"_  Bambi continued at his usual slow pace _. "And another time, she shot a guy. Then there was her boss..."_

Harley did not fail to notice that Bambi was being very specific in cherry-picking the details of her crimes, and as the recording continued, she was proven even more correct. That she'd killed a thug the night of the Crowne Gala, but not the details of the pier. That she had been involved in Walsh's death, but nothing further than that. That she had been part of the Cassamento murders, without mentioning the mob boss or his wife by name, or any other details of their murders.

She glared at the Joker once the recording ended with Bambi insisting he didn't know anything about the Joker or where he could be found or what he was planning.

"Interesting what a selective memory Bambi has," she snapped.

"Oh, come  _on_ ," the Joker purred, sliding a few steps closer as he wagged the thin phone between his thumb and forefinger. "It was all gonna come out eventually. You _knew_  that. Right now... this is the  _fun_  part."

"What is _that_  supposed to mean?" Harley demanded as he shifted even closer, close enough for her to touch him if she wanted to.

"I don't know if you  _know_  this," he scooped his hair off his forehead and offered her a rakish grin. "But I'm kind of an...  _amateur_  director. And  _you_  are gonna be the star of my next... big...  _picture_." He squinted at her through one eye as he held his hands up like he was creating a shot around Harley's head.

"You want to make a video with me about how Gordon lied about my being under investigation?" Harley lifted an unimpressed eyebrow. "And send it to GCN? Get them to play it to make your point that the cops can't be trusted?"

" _Yeah._ " His eyes glittered as they moved down to her throat, and Harley knew he was searching for the hickey he'd left there. "That's about the  _gist_  of it."

"That's stupid," Harley informed him, dismayed that her pulse picked up under the heat of his stare, but she forced herself to concentrate. "People already know Gordon lied, it's in all the papers. If you make some dramatic, disturbing video to hammer the point home it just looks you're forcing it down their throats."

His eyes slid up to meet hers, and she could see he was fighting a smirk which couldn't mean anything good. Then he sighed performatively and let his eyes drift down to her neck again, his gaze lingering there a moment before he lifted a hand to push the strap of her tank top aside, revealing the bruise on her collarbone.

Harley's eyes narrowed when he pressed his thumb against the still-tender area, her toes curling in her sneakers as heady memories that weren't easy to ignore swam to the front of her mind. She knew she should pull away, or hit him, or at least tell him to fuck off, but it was obvious he remembered those moments too, and his expression shifted from smugness into something far more...  _cautious_.

"I'll take care of it," Harley said shortly, her voice magnificently strong as she held her hand out expectantly. "You don't do subtle very well," she added drily.

_"Sure_  I do," he insisted, eyeing her slyly as he released her shoulder and handed her the phone. "You're just _better_  at it."

The words  _'good thing you have me, then'_  were on the tip of Harley's tongue but she swallowed them.

"How did you get this anyway?" She asked, watching him back away and duck under the ropes. He hesitated, gnawing his lip thoughtfully, and Harley estimated the chance of her getting a straight answer was probably very slim. But then he surprised her.

" _Well,"_  He smacked his lips and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. "See, Bambi was always gonna go to the MCU. It was just a question of  _when_. So we put a little...  _device_  inside him, just in case."

"Right," Harley nodded, remembering Lonnie with the scalpel and tweezers. "And then you broke him out the other night. Hence the stolen cop car and the police uniform."

He shrugged with false modesty, obviously thinking himself a genius.

Harley wanted to ask  _how_  he'd broken Bambi out, but before she could, the Joker had turned and loped off toward the exit without a backward glance. She watched him go, holding her breath until he was finally out of sight before she exhaled loudly through her teeth.

_"Fuck_ ," she hissed to herself.

* * *

Before Harley made her way to the dive bar, she stopped at a bodega for stamps and a padded envelope, then slid the phone with the recording of Gordon and Bambi inside along with instructions for how to find it. On the front of the envelope she wrote  _'FAO: VICKI VALE'_  in black sharpie, followed by the address for the Gotham Gazette's tip line, and when she got out of the car Downtown, she dropped the package into a mailbox down the street from the dive bar.

She arrived at the bar a full hour before Joe was due to show up, feeling she needed to decompress before she dealt with him. Over a pint of beer, she imagined carrying around a rate card with different fees for different consulting services, something laminated with big red letters she could hand to the Joker or Bruno next time they came asking her to for a favor.

_One Hour Consultation: $2,000_

_Interrogation (not including expenses, travel, etc): $5,000_

_Advice on instigating anarchy: $10,000_

No matter what he thought, the Joker did  _not_  understand subtlety. If Vicki Vale reported on the recording, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that Gordon had lied to the city about what he knew and when he knew it, people would be furious. If the Joker forced it down their throats himself, they would only be afraid of him. He may have enjoyed their fear, but Harley felt it was unnecessarily heavy-handed and could do with some  _tempering_ , which she supposed was where she came in.

Though  _why_  she was helping him, she wasn't sure. She had no problem admitting he made a valid point, though she personally didn't get excited about the prospect of watching Gotham burn itself to the ground so its citizens could see the 'truth.' Harley just wanted to survive, and more than that she wanted to  _thrive_. Chaos and anarchy didn't fit into the equation. Maybe she was just more selfish than the Joker, though it took quite a lot of mental gymnastics to actually believe that.

Selfish wasn't the right word... he just didn't see other humans as anything but sacks of blood and bones moving around him, like planets around the sun. He thought of  _himself_  as the sun.

And yet, when they were in bed together, this metaphor fell apart completely. Harley didn't feel like some fleshy receptacle he was only using for the sake of getting his rocks off like he used all other people to get the results he wanted.

He had been wholly engrossed in her, lavishing attention on her, and Harley had felt like  _she_  was the sun.

But, Harley also knew this  _behavior_  could be nothing but a farce; just a psychopath with a faulty limbic system attempting to imitate human behavior. It was textbook.

Joe slid onto the stool beside Harley, his eyes big and concerned like he'd been worrying about her since the last time he saw her. Harley offered him a supplicant smile and waited for him to order a beer before she started to speak, but Joe got to it first, suggesting they sit at one of the booths along the wall where they could get more privacy, and once they were settled across from each other Harley started to speak, but Joe got there first again.

"Listen, Ann," he said slowly, looking around the room. "I know we haven't known each other that long but I feel like... I feel like we're friends."

"We are friends, Joe," Harley nodded. "It's hard to make friends in Gotham."

"I don't want to push you away," Joe continued, and Harley thought,  _interesting choice of words._  "But if you're in some kind of trouble and there's anything I can do to help, or even if you just want to talk about it. I'm here for you."

Harley smiled at him, conveying with her eyes exactly how much that meant to her, because she  _did_  appreciate the sentiment, and he was making everything  _much_  easier for her.

"I um... I owe someone money..." She said slowly, lifting her eyes to Joe's. "Someone... dangerous."

"Okay," he nodded. "Do you need money? I can get you money."

"No," Harley shook her head. "It's not about the money anymore; it's personal. Well, it's personal, and it's business. It's hard to explain."

Joe ran his hand over his mouth, and Harley could see he hadn't shaved that day because he was so concerned about his new friend Ann.

"Well," he said thoughtfully, looking a little anxious. "Could you tell me _who_  you owe money to?"

Harley bit her bottom lip and stared at him over the table, picturing the different avenues this could go. Joe, unlike the Joker, was easy to read, easy to understand, easy to predict. It was an easy choice.

"Sofia Falcone," Harley said softly, making Joe's eyes widen in surprise.

"Sofia Falcone?" He repeated, looking bewildered. "The fashion designer? The lady from the Real Housewives of Gotham?"

"She only made a cameo last season," Harley said before she could stop herself, then frowned determinedly and met Joe's eye. "She's not what she seems. Do you know who Carmine Falcone is?"

Joe's eyes widened again. "Oh," he said like he couldn't believe he'd never put the two together. " _Oh..."_  He said again.

"Right," Harley nodded.

"Do you mind if I ask why you owe her money?" Joe pushed, looking strained. "I mean  _maybe_  there's something I can do..."

Harley lifted her gaze to the ceiling. "Have you heard of the Belfast Guild?" She asked him after a beat, and when he shook his head, she continued haltingly. "It's an organization that's existed in Gotham for a hundred years... an organization of... assassins." She met Joe's eye evenly when she said this last part, knowing it sounded crazy because when she first heard about it, she'd laughed out loud.

But Joe seemed to know just enough about Gotham's underbelly to know that assassins were no laughing matter.

"You... you're one of them?" He asked, carefully. "Ann, you're a..."

"I  _used_  to be," Harley said quickly, seeing he needed her to be moral and good. "I was too young when they brought me in. I left without completing a job, and that's why Sofia Falcone is out for my head."

"Jesus," Joe sat back in the booth, thinking this over, and Harley watched him try to decide how he felt about his new friend being a murderer. Finally, he looked up, something hopeful in his eyes. "I might be able to help you," he said.

Harley shook her head. "You don't have to do that, Joe. I just appreciate having someone to talk to."

"No, really, Ann," Joe hunched over the table. "Listen, the kid I look after? He's Freddi Maroni. Salvatore Maroni's son. Sal Maroni is the head of the mob. He took over for Carmine Falcone when he went to Arkham."

"You work for Maroni?" Harley's eyebrows shot up in feigned surprise, and she had to stop herself from victoriously pumping her fist in the air.

"Yeah. Maybe I can like, talk to Mr Maroni, and he can help you," Joe enthused like he'd found the answer to all her problems. But then he paused and frowned. "The only thing is, he normally visits every other week, just to check in on Freddi, but he hasn't come in almost a month..."

"Joe," Harley bit her lip and fixed him with a grim look. "That's because Sal Maroni is being hunted by the Joker. He's in hiding."

"The  _Joker_?" Joe hissed, looking comically terrified.

"Yes," Harley nodded, preparing to deliver the final blow. "And Sofia Falcone is behind it."

"What!" Joe looked scandalized on behalf of his employer. "Why?!"

"She wants to take over," Harley shrugged. "Who better to do her dirty work than the Joker?"

It was almost beautiful how easily it all came together — the perfect combination of lies and truths, of reality and fiction.

"That's crazy," Joe shook his head, still looking shocked. "This is  _crazy._ "

"I know," Harley said quietly. "But if I could just get ahead of her then  _maybe_  I could stop it."

This line tickled her. She could envision the Batman saying something similar to Gordon about the Joker.

"What do you mean get ahead of her?" Joe frowned.

Harley pressed her lips together and fixed him with a heavy look, conveying that Joe already knew what she meant.

"I mean get to her before she gets to Freddi's father," she said gently.

"You mean... kill her," Joe said slowly, struggling with the concept of murder. And of course he would, Joe didn't want anyone to die, and when Harley nodded silently, Joe's eyes slid to the bottom of his pint glass as if the answer to this complicated web of problems could be found there.

They sat in silence for a little while, and eventually, Joe said, "Let me talk to Freddi. Maybe there's something we can do to help stop  _all_  of this."

"Thank you, Joe," Harley said, almost tearfully, as she took his hand across the table, exactly as she'd done to Marty the night before. "Thank you for trusting me," she added as Joe smiled bashfully, just as Marty had. "I won't forget it."

They returned to watching the game in companionable silence after that, Joe looking incredibly relieved. Perhaps because after all this time spent being Freddi Maroni's babysitter it was finally going to pay off and help a lot of people, including Freddi.

Joe left at midnight like he always did and Harley went back to her car and turned on the ignition, but she couldn't bring herself to drive back to Grin's. She did feel triumphant but not necessarily  _happy_. It was more like she'd won the first battle, but not the war.

Trying not to think too hard about what she was doing, Harley pulled onto the freeway and drove up to Otisburg, following the now-familiar route to Bruno's duplex, and parked out front.

She retrieved a burner phone from her coat pocket and typed out a message, deciding she would give him two minutes to reply before she left.

_"Outside Bruno's."_

Thirty seconds later, her phone beeped.

_"Five minutes."_

Harley closed her eyes, trying not to rationalize what she was doing and just give in to the fact that it was what she wanted, and when she'd managed to push the nagging, dissenting voice away she hiked up her dress and tugged her underwear off over her boots, balling them up and stuffing them into the seat beside her. She paused, imagining different scenarios of what she would do or say once he showed up, trying to decide how this would go, but it depended entirely on him. And  _he_  was what made this so damn...  _inexplicable_.

With a mind to the practicalities of the situation, Harley slipped her hand between her legs and started to touch herself. She let her eyes close as she thought about the night before, of glimpses and sensations and his breath on her neck. She thought about his thumb rubbing along her collarbone earlier that day, and his thumb rubbing her other places the night before - her lips, the backs of her knees, her clit - and by the time the passenger door flew open, she was sufficiently warmed up.

He ducked into the car, looking completely different from how he'd appeared that afternoon aside from the green hair. He was wearing black jeans with a widening rip in the knee and a black tee-shirt, his lean, lanky frame obvious instead of hidden beneath the bulky purple suit. His hair was tied back again, and his feet were bare despite the freezing weather. When he'd closed the door and settled into the passenger seat, he looked at her expectantly, prodding the scars inside his cheek with his tongue.

Without acknowledging him, Harley braced her hand on the back of the passenger seat and climbed over the gear shift, her knee digging into his thigh as she settled into his lap with her legs astride him. He watched her curiously, his hands hovering but not touching her as she undid the button and zip on his jeans, and he lifted his hips to allow her to tug them down far enough to free him. When it became apparent that she wasn't going to touch him, he took himself in hand, and Harley hovered over him, waiting.

She tried to stay detached from him, keeping her eyes on the back window to give him space to stroke himself until he was ready. She tried not to think about what he was thinking about to get himself turned on even though realistically, he was probably thinking about her, which was an incredibly arousing thought on its own. But Harley didn't want to think about that, so she stared hard out the back window like there was salvation through it.

Then his hand snuck between her legs, his fingertips gliding over her, and when Harley heard his low, satisfied hum, her heart started slamming fitfully against her breastbone.

Touching her seemed to be enough to get him ready to go, so Harley pushed his hand away and rose up on her knees, bracing her hands on his shoulders and keeping her eyes trained on his ear as she sank down onto him. She inhaled sharply, her heart beating frantically as she shifted her hips, letting her body adjust to the length and size of him inside her. Then she started to rock against him, staring at his ear as she told herself she was only there for his length and size, and nothing more.

It was cramped and awkward, and he let his hands rest lightly on her legs as she started moving faster above him. Aside from the occasional clench of his jaw, he was impossible to read, which Harley found strangely upsetting in this instance. She could feel herself getting close but not close  _enough,_ no matter how urgently she bore down on him. She knew she was resisting him. Resisting seemed like the right thing to do, but it wasn't what she  _wanted_  to do.

_Fuck it._

Harley's hands flew up to his face, cupping his jaw as she stared into his eyes, her hips rolling relentlessly against his. She lowered her mouth to his and licked the scar splitting his bottom lip, and she felt his whole body twitch beneath her. Then he was kissing her urgently, like they were running out of time, as his hands curled around her waist, pulling her down onto him harder.

Feeling him give himself over to her was enough to push Harley over the edge. She groaned weakly, her head falling back as pleasure pulsed through her, and she let him take over, extending her pleasure as his hips continued snapping up into hers. A minute later, he came with a quiet grunt, his hands flexing on her waist as he fell forward to press his face against her shoulder.

Harley counted to ten, and then she counted to twenty before she forced herself to climb off him and crawl back into the driver's seat. She cleared her throat as she settled back in behind the wheel, rearranging her dress and trying to ignore the sticky fluid gathering between her legs.

He rearranged himself and did up his jeans, then braced his hands on his thighs, looking at the dashboard and licking his healing bottom lip. Harley was sure he wouldn't say anything, even if he might have been considering it, and then he proved her right by pushing the car door open and leaving without saying a word.

* * *

The following night, Harley was late getting to the dive bar, and by the time she got there Joe was waiting for her at the same booth they'd sat at the night before, his face lined with worry. Instead of his usual pint of lager, there was a glass of red wine on the table, making Harley wonder what this small diversion from routine meant for him. His lips and teeth were stained red already like he was on his second if not third glass.

She ordered a beer and slid into the booth across from Joe, offering him a tight smile.

"I spoke to Freddi," he said before she'd even said hello. "I told him everything, and he wants to help."

Harley sighed. "Listen, Joe. I don't want to get you two into any trouble..."

"Ann, it isn't trouble. It's the right thing to do," Joe insisted. "It's a little weird for me, but Freddi, he was raised around this stuff. He says if you... 'take care of,'" He used air quotes for this phrase. "Sofia Falcone then the Joker will back off. And that means Freddi has a chance to save his dad."

It took a lot of effort for Harley to keep the pity she felt for both of them out of her expression. Sure, Freddi was probably familiar with power grabs and assassins, but thinking the Joker would stop? Or that Freddi could save his father's life and win his affection? It was incredibly naive, but it worked well for Harley. Still, she almost felt guilty.

Almost.

She scratched the beer-soaked table thoughtfully, musing over how this naivete could  _hurt_ her.

"Freddi hasn't spoken to his father in over a month," Joe continued. "And he doesn't have any idea where he is or how to find him, which I guess is good if the Joker's looking for him. But... if we can get you to Sofia Falcone... Well, Freddi has an idea..."

Harley's entire plan revolved around getting herself in the same room as Sofia Falcone, and Joe was now  _pitching_  Harley's idea to her. She realized then that this wasn't just desperation to win a father's love; it was the most exciting thing to happen to either of them, probably ever. Freddi Maroni, bastard son of Gotham's Mob King, hiring an 'assassin' to take out the competition and save his father. Oh, it was _too_  easy, and she almost wanted to stand up and walk away because it felt like  _cheating_.

But it had taken patience and careful planning and a few death-defying moments for Harley to get to this stage; the opportunity hadn't just  _fallen_  into her lap.

Harley nodded and said, "What's Freddi's idea?"

Joe propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward. "Next week there's a party... or a  _ball_ , maybe — a fundraiser at Sofia Falcone's penthouse for Janice Porter, the DA candidate. Freddi gets invited to these things all the time, and he says they do it to be polite even though he never goes. But he can go to this one, and he's got a plus one."

"A plus one," Harley parroted, trying to envision how this could play out. She hadn't considered a big social event might be the best opportunity to engage Sofia Falcone.

"Yeah, so you could go... you could get close enough to her to... to  _do_  something?" Joe bit his lip, obviously only having Freddi's word to go on that a professional assassin could 'do something' like this.

"I could," Harley said carefully. She needed time to think it through, to figure out what she would need to do to maintain this farce.

"The only problem, Freddi says," Joe continued after he'd swallowed a mouthful of wine. "Is that she would recognize you... and something might _happen_  to you."

"That's not a problem," Harley waved him off. "I can disguise myself. I'm just not sure..."

"Think it over," Joe encouraged. "We have a week. Freddi really wants to meet you too, so maybe you could come over...?"

Wow. Invited right into the home of Maroni's bastard son. Now she  _really_  had options.

"Okay," Harley said weakly, feigning reluctance. "I'll think it over."

"Good," Joe looked relieved and drained the rest of his wine before looking at Harley again. "Ann, if you  _can_  do this think about how much good it would do."

It was shocking how swiftly Joe's opinion on life and death and who deserved to die had shifted. Yesterday he had been horrified by the idea of Harley killing anyone, even someone  _bad_. But Freddi had washed all those concerns away.

Maybe it  _was_  too easy...

"I'll think it over," Harley said again, getting to her feet, and offered him a tired smile. "I'll see you tomorrow, Joe," she promised.

On the drive back to Grin's, Harley thought over this new development in the saga she'd created for herself. There were the practicalities: a disguise, a backstory, questions about Freddi Maroni's presence. All of that could be dealt with easily enough— details were the key to pulling it off.

And what was it she was trying to pull off exactly?

Once she was finally alone in a room with Sofia Falcone, she would go with her gut feeling. Some things couldn't be planned.

She still had one more critical element to add into the mix, one more thread to pull in the future, one more level to climb on her way to the top of the volcano... and once again, Marty was the key.

Harley was so deep in thought that she missed the parking lot beside Grin's and had to go around the block again. Feeling intellectually and emotionally drained, she decided more than one drink was in order while she spoke to Marty, and she had a feeling he would feel the same once she told him what she had in mind.

Harley walked through the club's front entrance and nearly stopped dead when she realized who was standing at the bar, casually leaning against it with a beer in hand, talking to Marty out of the side of his mouth. He was wearing a gray button-down shirt, unbuttoned at the throat with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and tucked neatly into slim black trousers. His hair was clean, back to its natural sandy-brown and flopping over his forehead no matter how he tried to rake it back. The Joker, looking more  _normal_  than Harley had ever seen him, and she narrowed her eyes suspiciously as she moved closer.

A David Bowie song from the 80s started playing over the club's bass-heavy speakers as Harley warily approached him, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see Marty putting together a gin and tonic for her, doing his usual routine of pretending not to eavesdrop.

"What are you doing here?" she frowned, angling for annoyed, which she was, but she was also distracted by that  _giddy_  feeling bubbling in her chest.

He set his beer down on the bar carefully before turning his attention to her. "We need... to talk," he informed her, lifting his eyebrows meaningfully.

Harley's eyes widened, wondering what the hell this could mean. Was it business? Was it personal? She couldn't imagine he wanted to have a 'talk' about the last two nights. Absolutely not. It had to be business.

"Okay," she agreed, picking up the drink Marty had made her. "Talk."

"Uh," he rolled his eyes to the side, feigning awkwardness, and then back to her. "Somewhere more...  _private_."

"Private," Harley repeated flatly, folding her arms and shooting him a dubious look. He only stared back at her blankly, giving nothing away as he was so fond of doing. God, what if it was _bad_. What if it was Penguin related. What if it got in the way of her plans. "Fine," she relented, shrugging out of her jacket and throwing it on a barstool, then taking a sip of her drink before replacing it on the bar. She still needed to talk to Marty. "Come on," she said, gesturing for him to follow her.

She led the Joker down the side of the stage, waving at Roxy, who waved back cheerfully as she swung around the pole, and he followed her through the dusty curtains and up the narrow flight of stairs. The sound of a bed squeaking and dramatic moans echoed from one of the rooms they passed, something Harley had gotten used to by now. According to Roxy, only a few of the girls actually 'turned tricks' at Grin's, their logic being it was better to do it there with bouncers present instead of down an alley somewhere.

As she unlocked her door, the Joker loomed behind her, almost stepping on her heels. Something felt a little bit...  _off_  with him. More so than usual. Harley looked over her shoulder at him before pushing the door open, just to make sure he wasn't planning on murdering her, but he only stared back at her blankly, emoting nothing.

He would dress up nicely to murder her, she thought bitterly. That would be  _so_  like him.

"After you," she said snidely, holding the door open, and he slid past her with his usual showman-like flourish, disappearing into the darkened room.

Harley followed him, pulling the door shut behind her as she turned on the lamp. But as soon as dim light filled the room, the Joker was on top of her, pushing her back against the door as his hands closed around her waist.

She was stunned for a second, unsure what was happening until he squeezed her waist suggestively and bent down to kiss her.

"Wait, _what?_ " Harley breathed, turning her face away even as her arms looped around his neck. He cocked his head to the side curiously, one of his hands moving from her waist to her back to slide up her spine. "Is this a _booty_  call?" Harley demanded incredulously, distracted by his hands.

"Uh," his hand reached the back her neck, his nails lightly grazing the skin at her nape. "Is that a  _problem_?" He asked coyly.

Harley thought,  _yeah, that's a problem - that's a big fucking problem_  - but she was already offering her mouth up to him, encouraging him to kiss her.

They staggered away from the door, their mouths fused together, and Harley felt his knee bump against hers as he toed off his shoes. She withdrew her arms from his neck and started fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, managing to get half of them undone before his fingers tangled into her hair, drawing her head back as he pressed his palm flat against her lower back, forcing her to arch into him as his mouth connected with her throat.

Harley swallowed a whimper, her pulse fluttering beneath his lips as desire spread through her body, and she felt  _weak_  in his arms as he backed her into the dresser. He pulled back from her to tug her blouse out of her jeans, and Harley quickly yanked the garment off over her head, tossing it aside as he undid the rest of the buttons on his shirt, and she threw her arms around him again, dragging him back to her.

But he pulled away again, pushing her hands away before lowering himself down on one knee and then the other. He was kneeling in front of her, staring up at her, and there was something  _submissive_  in his face that was hard to ignore as he shrugged off his shirt.

Harley had only seen him shirtless in almost complete darkness before, but in the lamplight, she could really see him, and she was surprised how strongly it affected her. His body was long and lean like a swimmer, his collarbones somehow graceful, his arms lanky and toned, his stomach flat and hipbones prominent. He seemed even younger this way, and even more at odds with the Joker posturing than everything else she knew about him.

He continued to stare up at her, his eyes dark and intense as he unzipped her boots for her. Harley had to grab the dresser as she stepped out of them, her stomach tensing when he turned his attention to her jeans, undoing the button and zip before tugging them down and off without reservation, then doing the same with her underwear.

Harley was aware that she was clutching the dresser as if her life depended on it, aware that she must have looked dazed as she stared down at him, her lips parted in anticipation,  _waiting_  for him to  _do_   _something_. Without looking away from her, the Joker wrapped his hand around one of her feet and lifted it to his shoulder, making Harley's nails scratch along the wood of the dresser. Then he glanced up at her briefly before bowing forward to taste her.

_"Oh..."_  Harley choked, her legs trembling as his tongue zig-zagged over her, indulging in the taste of her. She threaded her fingers into his hair, needing something more to anchor herself than the creaky dresser as her arousal began to grow and spread. Then he changed pace, from languidly licking her to more intentionally pleasuring her with his mouth, making Harley's eyes squeeze shut as she tried not to let the one leg she was standing on buckle.

Her heart was hammering in her chest, and she was growing light-headed, her hips twitching against his face as the heat in her pelvis began to build. She tried to pull him up to her, but he swatted her away, wrapping his hand around her trembling thigh instead to help keep her upright. Through the fog of desire, Harley faintly thought that there was something so inexplicably  _intuitive_  about how they worked together, both in bed and in the real world.

Then he sank one finger inside her, and she stopped thinking entirely. Her lips moved wordlessly as she searched for a name to whisper, and the only thing she could come up with was _"J,"_  which she'd called him once before when she was desperate and afraid. She felt similarly now, panting the single syllable as her orgasm began to build and pleasure unspooled inside her until finally, euphoria swept through her like a hurricane.

Harley cried out weakly when she came, her head falling forward as the dresser crashed back into the wall.

He helped her through it, drawing out her orgasm as she huffed and panted breathlessly, then he nudged her foot off his shoulder and stood up, a _sliver_  of his usual smugness dancing in his eyes as he watched her pull her head up to face him.

She tried to breathe deeply to calm her racing pulse, watching his hands as he undid his belt. Her fingers and toes were still tingling when he picked her up by the waist and set her on the dresser, pulling one of her limp legs around his waist before he guided himself inside her.

Harley's head fell back, her body pliable as he fucked her on the dresser. One of his hands snaked up her back, pulling her forward into his chest, and she wrapped her arms and legs around him tight, her mouth connecting with his shoulder as he pressed his face into her hair, his chest warm and hard against hers.

Then he scooped her up and stumbled a few feet toward the bed, dropping her there while he kicked his pants and socks off. When he knelt on the bed, Harley reached behind her back to unclasp her bra, tossing it aside as she laid back.

He pulled one of her legs out to the side, pressing her thigh flat into the bed as he entered her again, and Harley arched up into him, whining quietly. His mouth connected with her neck as he fucked her, his fingers digging into her thigh where he was holding it down while Harley clawed at his back. Then he pried one of her hands off his shoulder and pressed it into the bed above her head, forcing her to remain arched under him as his hips snapped into hers.

Harley could hear herself breathing _"J,"_  over and over again, sounding lost or crazed. Then she was coming again, her body twitching up off the bed as her orgasm ripped through her. She could feel the muscles in his back tense under her hand as he cursed breathlessly in her ear, sounding so unlike himself that Harley almost sobbed, feeling overwhelmed.

There was just too _much_  of him, too many  _sides_  to him, and too much of him was starting to feel like _hers._ These were the unguarded thoughts floating through Harley's mind as he dropped his face to her chest, resting between her breasts as they caught their breath together, their hands still tangled together above her head.

But it was short-lived. Harley's body still felt like rubber, but her head began to clear, and those unguarded thoughts made her tense up, the weight of his body on top of her making her feel claustrophobic.

She put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a sharp shove that was impossible to misinterpret, and when he propped himself up on his elbow to look down at her, she hardened her expression to him. He ran his tongue over his teeth and narrowed his eyes, a silent contest of wills passing between them, though Harley wasn't sure what they were each contesting. Then he rolled off her and sat up, facing away from her.

Harley ran her hands through her hair and sat up too.

"You should go," she said shortly, swinging her feet over the side of the bed and reaching for her discarded underwear.

She stood and grabbed his pants, and threw them at him without looking at him before she snagged the tee shirt she'd slept in the night before, and pulled it over her head. She heard his belt jangle again as he got dressed, and she sat back down on the bed hard, trying to calm herself, and only looking at him once he'd finished buttoning his shirt and stepped back into his shoes.

"See ya," he said snidely, then took off out the window and down the fire escape.

Harley fell onto her back, her heart thumping almost harder now than it had when they'd been in the middle of it, and she shut her eyes, feeling more confused and conflicted than she could ever remember feeling in her life.

She sat up suddenly, remembering what she had been doing before he showed up, and picked up her coat off the floor to retrieve the burner phone with the penguin sticker on the back.

She typed out a quick message:  _"I have someone I want you to meet."_

By the time she'd cleaned up the mess between her legs and climbed into bed, she had a response from Penguin.

_"Tomorrow night! :)"_

Harley laid her head on the pillow and closed her eyes, but it was a long time before she found sleep.

* * *

**A/N: Right** **about now would be a great time to look inside the Joker's head, but you're not gonna get that for a little while longer.**

**Quite a lot of smut for one chapter but that's just the way the editorial cookie crumbled on this one. I doubt many of you are complaining considering the feedback so far, lol.**

**Next: Harley has something up her sleeve which creates some... tension with the Joker.**

**Please PLEASE review ;)**


	17. Chapter 17

The Harlequin

17.

* * *

The penthouse had been hastily decorated, a mismatch of expensive furniture and overly ornate styles pulled together to make life as comfortable as possible for Sal Maroni as he hid out in style.

Maroni sat in an armchair by the fireplace as he spoke to his wife on the phone. When the Joker started killing Cosa Nostra bosses, he sent her and their two grown, utterly useless sons, Pino and Umberto, to Chicago, but it would have been a bad look for Maroni to leave town with them. So here he was, holding court like a king under siege, only bringing in those who were important enough to meet in person and those trustworthy enough to keep his location a secret.

When Victor Zsasz entered the room, Maroni told his wife he loved her and hung up the phone. Tall, bald, and imposing, with a ginger goatee, Zsasz kept a running tally of his victims in the form of scratches on the side of his neck. His victims were always women—always blonde and petite—and when what remained of their bodies was found, it was always a fucking mess. Maroni didn't trust him as far as he could throw him, but a message needed to be sent, and Zsasz sent an unambiguous message.

"Victor Zsasz," Maroni said, holding his hand out, but Zsasz didn't take it, and after a beat, Maroni lowered his arm to his side. "It's been a long time, Victor."

"It has," Zsasz agreed.

Maroni sighed, seeing that this wasn't the sort of transaction that required a drink or small talk. Instead, he grabbed a copy of that day's Gotham Gazette off his desk and handed it to Zsasz.

"We're havin' some problems with the Joker," Maroni said drily as Zsasz examined the newspaper's front page. "We think the Bat will take him down, sooner rather than later, but who can say. We need to make a move now, not later."

The Gazette's headline read:  _"HARLEY QUINN ACCUSED OF MURDER: LEAKED RECORDING CONFIRMS GCPD LIES."_

The headline was accompanied by two pictures side by side. The first was a staff picture of a blonde woman wearing a lab coat; her hair pulled back tight, her clothes dour, her expression pinched. In the second, her face was painted like the Joker's, her teeth bared in a snarl, her hair wild, utterly unrecognizable from the first photo unless you looked  _very_  carefully and used your imagination.

"That's Harleen Quinzel. Or, Harley Quinn," Maroni explained, pouring himself a scotch. "She was the Joker's shrink but uh, it seems like there's a little more going on there now."

Zsasz nodded mutely, memorizing the angles of the woman's face.

"I hear you and the Joker have a history," Maroni continued, strolling back to Zsasz with his drink in hand. "Before the fuckin' purple suit. So I figure this is a win for all of us. We take him down a few pegs, and maybe we make a deal with him for her. It's impossible to say what works with this fuckin' guy. Best case scenario, we distract him till the Bat takes care of him."

"You put a lot of faith in the Batman," Zsasz rumbled, still staring at the pictures.

"Yeah, well," Maroni shrugged off the comment and swallowed a mouthful of scotch, watching as Zsasz traced a finger over Harleen Quinzel's face. "She's your type too, isn't she? You should give me a discount for setting this up."

He smirked, but Zsasz just continued to stare at the newspaper's front page.

"So I'm thinkin' a hundred grand for the shrink," Maroni continued. "If you can take care of the Joker too, we'll make it five million."

"Not the Joker," Zsasz said sharply, and Maroni rolled his eyes. He was used to dealing with these psycho thugs when he had to, but he didn't enjoy it.

"Fine, just the woman," Maroni agreed. "Do we have a deal?"

Zsasz looked up at Maroni, rubbing his thumb over Harleen Quinzel's image in newsprint.

"Yes," he said quietly.

* * *

If Harley were to advise a young woman on how not to get murdered, she would have advised against jogging alone in the Cauldron, a neighborhood primarily populated by crooks, coke dealers and 'master assassins.' But Harley had too much on her mind and too much extra energy to burn, so she ran around the block Grin's and O'Riley Green Grocers sat on until her legs began to seize up. She took the rest of her energy out on a punching bag in the secret gym until Ralphie arrived to help her train, and she encouraged him to be harder on her, to hit her if she didn't duck in time, and after he left she returned to the punching bag, refusing to sit with her thoughts.

She left for the dive bar early and ended up drinking rum—her unhappy drink—for far too long as she stared at the big screen TV showing a football game. She didn't understand the game or what was happening on the screen in the slightest, but it still provided the distraction she craved. Even drinking slowly, she managed to put away five shots of rum, making her feel lazy and a little drunk, and not at all happier. To help her sober up, she took a short walk down the street to a pizza parlor and ordered herself a whole pie to soak up the booze. With nothing else to do, Harley returned to the dive bar to wait for Joe, knowing she was behaving in the  _worst_  possible way when she needed to be clear and in control of the night ahead of her.

She felt like she was being split in half again, just as she had that night at her apartment when she'd trashed the place over feelings of wanting something different and not knowing what that  _something_  was, while old-fashioned notions of right and wrong made her deny herself it anyway.

And here she was again, after everything she'd been through, feeling the same way. And this time, it was an even more complicated and impossible situation.

When Joe arrived, he appeared at her elbow, looking pink in the cheeks from the cold outside, or possibly from excitement.

"Are you okay, Ann?" He asked when he saw her face, and Harley internally chastised herself for being so obvious.

"I'm just tired," she lied smoothly, and checked her phone for the time, seeing how long she had. "I'm not exactly getting a good night's sleep at the moment."

Not a lie.

"I can imagine," he said, his eyes widening sympathetically. "Listen, Freddi says we should..."

"Not tonight," Harley cut him off and got to her feet. "I have to take care of something tonight—but I'll meet you here tomorrow?"

"Oh, okay," Joe's face fell though he tried to hide it.

Harley didn't have time to appease him, so she did the next best thing and hugged him, conveying how much she needed him through the strength in her arms.

"See you tomorrow?" She asked when she pulled back to look him in the face, and he nodded, looking a little bit stunned.

Harley jogged back to her car, feeling slightly more in control now that the  _waiting_  part of the evening was over and she could get to work. She drove back to Grin's and parked in the gravel lot, then held her breath as she entered the club, hoping the Joker wouldn't be there waiting for her again because she had  _no_  idea what she would do if he were.

But it was just Marty behind the bar, and mercifully the club was looking a bit emptier than usual. Harley sidled up to the bar and Marty began putting together a gin and tonic for her.

"Alright there, Harley?" He greeted her with a sly, suggestive grin as he set the drink in front of her.

Harley rolled her eyes, knowing that grin was about the Joker being in her room the night before. "Can we talk?" She asked.

"Please tell me this isn't more about Sofia Falcone," Marty lifted one dubious eyebrow at her.

"No," Harley said, folding her arms on top of the bar. She wished she could have this conversation in more detail, in private the night before, but of course, the Joker had gotten in the way of that. "This is about Mickey Sullivan," she said grimly.

Marty's face soured as he slapped down the rag he'd been using to wipe down the bar.

"What the  _fuck_  do ya want to talk about that cunt for?" He demanded.

"I have an idea," Harley replied calmly, catching his eye and holding it determinedly.

"What's this all about?" He sighed reluctantly, his curiosity and hatred for Mickey Sullivan getting the best of him.

"You hate him," Harley said, her voice growing stronger. "You hate all of the Sullivans. Because they  _stole_  from you, they stole your business, they stole your dignity, and they stole your  _rightful_  place in Gotham."

"Aye," Marty agreed, looking both pissed off and intrigued. "Yer not tellin' me anything I don't already know, Harley."

"And the only reason," she continued as if he hadn't spoken. "That you haven't killed all of them and taken back your rightful place is because those Italian  _bastards_  are propping the Sullivans up, right _?_ "

"Too fuckin' right," Marty muttered bitterly.

"I have a solution," Harley said, offering Marty a cheeky smile. "If there are no Italians, no Maroni, then nothing is standing in your way."

"Are you suggesting we take out the Italian mafia and Salvatore Maroni?" Marty's face collapsed into an affectionate grin. "I like yer thinking, Harley, but that's a suicide mission."

"No, it's not," Harley shook her head. "Because someone has already picked off the main Cosa Nostra guys. That  _someone_  is making a power grab, and once the Sullivans are out of the picture that means  _you_ ," she poked Marty in the chest gently, "Will need to step in to take their place."

Marty stared at her, his expression shifting from bemused to surprised to almost  _awed_  by what she was suggesting. It was everything he'd ever wanted, and she was offering it to him on a silver platter.

"And who the fuck is this 'someone'?" He asked, trying not to sound like he'd already been persuaded.

Harley braced her elbows on the bar and leaned in close. "Have you heard of Penguin?"

* * *

Harley filled Marty in on as much as she thought was necessary, being sure to leave out the more _delicate_  details, and by the time she'd finished, Marty was already grabbing his coat. He grabbed two of his boys who he introduced her to as Slick Murphy and Two Time O'Neil, and they headed for Marty's old Chevrolet Camaro. Once Harley had slammed the car door shut, she scooped the paint pallet from the Mega Mart out of her coat pocket and began applying it to her face without a mirror, sure the effect would be what she wanted.

"He's not gonna like this, ya know," Marty told her as they pulled out onto the street.

Marty wasn't stupid - he knew the mob bosses were getting picked off and he knew at least some had been attributed to the Joker. He, like Bruno and Lonnie and all the others, didn't ask questions or need to know the bigger picture. Now Harley had effectively laid out at least a piece of the Joker's plan without mentioning him by name, and Marty would be able to connect the dots... that the Joker was involved in Penguin's plot to take out the Italian mob, and now  _they_  were stepping out of line by getting involved without his permission.

"I don't give a shit," Harley replied caustically. "He doesn't  _own_  you, Marty."

Marty laughed shortly then shot her a meaningful look. "Whatever's going on between the two of you, ya know that won't stop him from fuckin' killin' you if he feels like it."

"That's not going to happen," Harley huffed, spreading a palmful of red paint across her mouth before tucking the paints away.

"Lord in heaven," Marty shook his head as they headed Uptown. "Yer gonna get  _me_  fuckin' killed, Harley."

"Marty," Harley turned to him as they slowed to a stop at a red light, a street lamp casting a beam across her face as Marty looked at her. "I will protect you, Marty," she promised him. And she meant it.

He stared back at her, with that slightly awed gleam in his eye like he couldn't believe what he was seeing and hearing. Then he sighed loudly and turned back to the road as the light turned green.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ. I may be a fuckin' fool, but I believe ya," he chuckled and glanced at her again. "You've got no idea how disturbing it is being promised protection by that fuckin' face. It's just  _wrong._ "

"That's the point," Harley said coldly, looking straight ahead.

When they reached the Iceberg Lounge, the line at the of well-dressed partygoers was curving around the block even though it was a Monday night. Harley directed Marty down the side of the club and had him park beside the kitchen entrance where two bouncers in dark suits were standing at attention. She strolled up to them, Marty on her heels while his goons pried themselves out of the back of the little car.

"We're here to see Mr Cobblepot," Harley said cooly. "You can tell him Harley Quinn is here."

One of the bouncers disappeared inside while the other kept an eye on their ragtag group. Harley could feel him staring at her, her painted face putting him on edge, and she turned the full weight of her glare on him.

 _"_ Didn't your mother ever tell you it isn't nice to  _stare_ ," she hissed, pleased when the bouncer swallowed nervously and took a step back.

The first bouncer returned then, holding the kitchen door open for them to pass through, and once they were inside, a third bouncer and the bodyguard Harley knew to be called Louis began patting them down. Harley allowed them to take her heavy coat, beneath which she wore the black knit dress from the Tailor's shop and her long leather boots. Penguin had an affinity for style, and Harley had no qualms about pandering to him in this way.

"Oh  _my!_  Dr Quinzel!" Penguin's shrill voice echoed behind her, prompting Harley to turn and face him, a smile on her lips. He lifted his eyebrows, looking delighted by her warpaint. "Or, Harley Quinn, it would seem!"

"Hello, Oswald," Harley smiled, offering her hand to him, which he kissed with the airs of a gentleman.

When he straightened up, she saw the complacent gleam in his eye as he examined her, and she did the same, thinking he looked paler against the stark black points of hair arranged over his forehead. It was easy to mock him because of how he presented himself, an invalid in Gothic couture, and there was something a little bit _off_  about him, but Harley knew not to underestimate Penguin. Like her, he had scaled the volcano from nothing, and that meant he was at least as dangerous as she was.

"Your  _friend_  has been very active lately," Penguin said with a grimace that made his neck wrinkle. "We are not a disposal service."

"I don't know anything about that," Harley said airly, and took a step to the side, gesturing to Marty. "But I'd like you to meet my friend. Marty O'Riley."

"Pleased ta meet ya," Marty said stiffly, offering his hand to Penguin.

"Mr O'Riley," Penguin's eyes lit up as he realized whose hand he was shaking, and he turned slowly to Harley, looking impressed. She smirked, and Penguin turned back to Marty. "Of the Belfast Guild?"

Marty nodded and puffed out his chest. "That's right."

" _How very_ interesting," Penguin beamed. "Please, let's have a drink in my office. I always find a drink is the best way to solidify new friendships."

"Can't argue with that," Marty said, relaxing a fraction but still more serious and businesslike than Harley had ever seen him.

They followed Penguin down the short hall on the other side of the kitchen to his office, a dark room decorated in baroque black and purple, and only lit by a crackling electric fireplace. Penguin sat behind his desk while Harley and Marty took the stiff wingback chairs facing it, and Louis deposited a bottle of wine on the desk with three glasses, pouring each of them a considerable measure before leaving them to it.

"Tell me about yourself, Mr O'Riley," Penguin requested once they were alone. He rested his elbows on the desk and leaned forward gamely, beaming at Marty. "I'm so _fascinated_  that Harley thought  _we_  could be friends."

Marty drank half the wine in his glass and set it down on Penguin's desk, eyeing the younger man warily before he returned to his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I run a gentlemen's club," he said easily but not entirely friendly. "Sell a bit of coke, run a bit of protection here and there, wash some money through the club when I'm asked. Nothing too fancy."

"And yet you are an O'Riley," Penguin propped his chin up in his palm, shaking his head incredulously. "The greatest assassins Gotham has ever seen."

"Aye," Marty nodded shortly. "But not for some time now."

"Of _course_ ," Penguin gushed sympathetically. "Mickey Sullivan... he killed your brother Sean, didn't he?"

"Aye," Marty confirmed, his face darkening.

"I _see_ ," Penguin nodded, and settled back into his chair, playing dumb. "So, how can I help you this evening, Mr O'Riley?"

"Come on, Oswald," Harley cajoled, her mouth twitching into a beguiling smile. "You know why we're here."

Penguin's eyes narrowed, but his smile remained in place as he contemplated Harley, and after a beat of silence, he sucked in a breath and turned back to Marty.

"Harley has informed you of our... arrangement?" He asked, steepling his long fingers together like a comic book villain.

"She has," Marty replied coolly. "I understand you're after the big job, Mr Penguin."

It was the right thing to say. Penguin's whole face lit up, his ego tickled by what he was hearing, and he stood to circle the desk so he could lean against it and face them.

"In that case, let's not be coy," he said, looking pleased. "Mr Maroni is in hiding, but I have no doubt he will be found and  _disposed_  of shortly." He shot Harley a significant look here before continuing. "The Sullivans pose an existential threat to my, how shall we say,  _ascent_  to power _._  They're loyal to the Cosa Nostra, and I would very much like to see them disposed of as well."

"It would be my absolute pleasure, Mr Penguin," Marty drawled, his eyes glittering malevolently.

"I'm sure it would," Penguin simpered. "Then once the dust settles, I will need someone I can trust to run the Eastside and even take over other areas of the business. Perhaps, Mr O'Riley, that could be you?"

"We might be able to work somethin' out," Marty agreed, looking unfazed by the offer.

"I should hope so," Penguin gushed before turning to Harley, narrowing his eyes again. "You are very well placed, aren't you." It sounded like an accusation. "We'll see if we can't find something for you as well."

"Oh, shucks," Harley deadpanned, refusing to be supplicant. "That'd be great."

Marty chuckled under his breath and Penguin seemed to take her attitude in stride, perhaps deciding it was better to keep her happy than to assuage his own ego.

"In any case," Penguin continued briskly, turning back to Marty. "I would rather this...  _Sullivan_  issue be dealt with sooner rather than later. You can use my men, as many of them as you'll need to take out their macabre theatre in the Narrows."

"Their theatre?" Marty raised an eyebrow.

"Yes," Penguin's nose wrinkled like he smelled something vile. "Those idiots store half their product in a condemned cinema right in the middle of the Narrows. Mickey Sullivan, I believe, can be found there more often than not."

Marty nodded once, absorbing this information silently, but Harley suspected later there would be whiskey and cocaine to celebrate with his boys.

"Now, Harley," Penguin returned his attention to her, looking like he was about to launch into a speech. "About... the Joker..."

But he was cut off by the tinny, jovial notes of an Irish Jig playing from Marty's pocket. Penguin's eyes narrowed in irritation as Marty pulled out his phone to silence it, but when he saw the screen, he froze, his face falling.

"Mary Magdalen's  _tits_ ," he swore and looked at Harley. "Never has the phrase 'speak of the devil' been so accurate," he told her flatly.

Harley felt her pulse leap in her throat, and she glanced at Penguin to see how he would react to this development. She was pleased to see he looked a little scared, but mostly he was radiating irritation that they were being interrupted, and she sensed this was his overall feeling for the Joker. Irritation and just a touch of well-placed fear.

Marty answered the phone - because ignoring the call would have been tantamount to betrayal - and listened to whatever the Joker had to say for about thirty seconds, his eyes darting between Harley and Penguin. Then he held the burner phone out to her, a shade of _'told you so_ ' in the grim line of his mouth.

Harley took the phone from him and held it up to her ear, annoyed by how tense she'd suddenly become. Her nerves were splintering at the prospect of pissing the Joker off, and that pissed _her_  off.

She didn't say anything into the phone, just waited for him to say something, her annoyance growing the longer the silence stretched on.

 _"Harley,"_  he purred at last, and Harley could practically see the nasty little smile curling his lips as he said her name. "You've been  _busy._ "

"I don't know what you mean," she said coolly.

"Oh... I think you  _do_ ," he insisted, keeping his voice low, and then in the background there was a riot of automatic gunfire, fuzzing static through the phone, then a second later the same sounds exploded to life out in the kitchen, the relentless rattling of bullets spitting and men shouting echoing through the thick oak door of Penguin's office.

"Shit," Harley muttered, jumping to her feet and dropping the phone. There was a second round of gunfire in the kitchen, and she looked around the office for something to arm herself with just as Penguin withdrew a long-barrelled shotgun from under his desk.

"What the  _fuck_  is going on!" He raged, his eyes wild.

Marty and Harley looked at each other, neither of them particularly _surprised_  but not entirely sure what to  _do_  about the fact that they'd been caught.

The office door swung open, and the Joker stepped through, his heavy purple coat swinging around him, a submachine gun wedged under one arm. He was still holding a phone to his ear as the sounds of dying men moaning in the kitchen trickling in behind him.

 _"Har-ley_..." he sang into the phone, just as he met her eye across the room. "Oh,  _here_  you are."

Harley pursed her lips, preparing to respond with a cutting remark about attention-seeking entrances but Penguin jumped in before she could. He pumped the shotgun once and aimed it at the Joker, stalking forward like a hunter with his teeth bared.

"We had a  _deal_ ," Penguin hissed, shoving the barrel of the shotgun into the Joker's stomach.

"Uh  _huh_ ," the Joker said distractedly, his attention still on Harley. His eyes were blazing and savage beneath the black paint, telling her she'd done something to _really_  get under his skin. The thought sent a thrilled shiver rolling across Harley's shoulders as Penguin ranted about decorum and agreements but, notably, did  _not_  shoot the Joker.

The Joker inhaled sharply like he was praying for patience, and slowly turned his attention to Penguin, eyeing him with a twitchy ferocity that made the other man take an involuntary step back.

"Ozzie, _buddy_ ," he snapped coldly, without his usual showmanship. "Shut the  _fuck_  up."

He slapped the barrel of Penguin's shotgun away like it was nothing and spared a look for Marty, who was nervously watching the scene unfold.

"Scram," the Joker barked at him, hiking a gloved thumb over his shoulder, and Marty ground his teeth but obediently took his leave of them.

Harley planted her fists on her hips and narrowed her eyes, bracing herself as the Joker stalked toward her, sucking on the scars inside his mouth as he contemplated her like a particularly infuriating puzzle. He crowded her back into the wall, and before she could say or do anything, his hand flew up to close around her throat. She choked, her face twisting into a grimace as she tried to claw at his gloved hand, but he just tightened his grip on her throat, yanking her forward and then throwing her back, so her head cracked against the wall, making stripes of color explode in front of her eyes.

Penguin was still behind them shouting. "Joker...  _Joker_! This must stop. This is absurd! I demand you stop!"

But the Joker ignored him, leaning into Harley as he continued to strangle her and hold her against the wall. His mouth was beside her ear, and she could feel his hair sticking to the paint on her cheek as he squeezed harder, making her head spin as she fought for breath.

"Someone... is getting a little  _cocky_ ," he hissed, his lips brushing against her ear.

Harley clawed at his wrist desperately, hoping to force him to release her as her nails broke the skin, and when that didn't work, she went for his neck and face. He dodged her attempts easily and gave her a hard shake, making her teeth rattle, and her vision blur.

"I wouldn't want you to get carried  _away_ ," he growled, keeping his voice low enough that Penguin wouldn't hear it, even as it edged into that dark, inhuman tone that occasionally tore out of him when he was  _especially_  pissed off. "You  _might_  not like what happens to you," he snarled.

Indignation flooded Harley, fighting for dominance over panic as she became increasingly light-headed. She  _loathed_  him for casting her in the role of  _victim_ by wielding his physical strength over her, using it to  _control_  her. She thrust her hand into his coat, her fingers closing around the hilt of a knife she knew he kept in the pocket of his vest. He moved to stop her, but Harley was faster, stabbing upwards and forcing his head back as she pressed the blade to the fleshy underside of his jaw.

He looked down at her dispassionately through hooded eyes, watching her struggle and gasp as she forced his head back further with the knife.

"Let... me...  _go_..." She choked, her voice no more than a strangled whisper.

With a snarl, he released her and Harley doubled over, dropping the knife as she sucked in deep, ragged breaths that burned her throat and lungs. She collapsed into one of the armchairs facing Penguin's desk, rubbing her throat as oxygen flooded her brain. Penguin was still shouting and screaming, and the Joker was squinting at her thoughtfully as he tongued the inside of his cheek, and Harley knew she needed to recover  _faster_  because Penguin had a club full of socialites in the next room and a hoard of bouncers that were going to make things much more complicated soon.

Harley stood up and pushed her hair off her face, lifting her chin imperiously as she continued to breathe hard through her nose, and the Joker's eyes narrowed even further.

She punched him in the face before he could block it, making him grunt in surprise as his head snapped back. He recovered quickly, and Harley prepared herself to block his attack, but instead, he threw his head back as a manic peel of laughter ripped out of his throat, making his whole body shake helplessly. He doubled over, his hands connecting with his knees to steady himself as he continued to howl and gasp, and Harley grabbed the bottle of wine off Penguin's desk, wielding it by the neck like a club.

Penguin's bodyguard Louis dodged into the room then, his pistol drawn and a contingent of goons in line behind him.

"Get them out! Get them the fuck out of here!" Penguin was raging, moving back behind his desk now that he had well-armed backup pointing their weapons at the nuisances.

The Joker raised the machine gun again, aiming in Penguin's direction but keeping his eyes on Harley as his laughter subsided into breathless giggles, his eyes still glittering dangerously. Then all at once, the laughter stopped, and the tension between them dropped a few degrees, even with the contingent of Penguin's men verbally threatening them. Harley felt like they had reached some truce out of practicality and dropped the wine bottle, letting it smash on the floor before she pushed past the Joker and headed for the exit.

"Sorry about this, Oswald," she called over her shoulder as she strode through the swarm of Penguin's guards. They parted for her, leaping back when the Joker followed close behind her.

Harley was furious, her skin prickling with anger as she stormed through the Iceberg Lounge's kitchen. She hated everything about the way she had just been treated, though she wasn't sure why she had been expecting anything different. Had she thought there wouldn't be some form of retaliation when she _knew_  what she was doing would piss him off? He was controlling and secretive, and Harley involving herself in his plans without his _permission_  meant he thought he had to take her down a few pegs.

And that was what had her fucking furious. She did not _need_  permission to do  _anything_ , and she wasn't going to start asking for it just because the Joker wished it to be the case.

He could kill her if he wanted to.

At least he could  _try._

She stomped out into the alley outside the club with the Joker looming behind her, stepping over the bodies of the club security and Marty's two boys, whom he had casually gunned down on his way in. More security staff were rushing through the kitchen's swinging doors, the brass band still playing loudly in the club as faces tried to peer through the crack in the door to see what was happening.

Marty's Camaro was idling in the alley, its headlights on and the driver's door wide open. Marty was on the phone and pacing, the headlights casting his shadow against the side of the club, and when he saw Harley and the Joker he shoved his phone in his pocket and stalked toward them, red in the face and more pissed than Harley had ever seen him. The Joker squared off with Marty, a nasty smile lighting up his face like he was looking forward to their inevitable confrontation.

"What the fuck do ya think yer doin' shootin' me boys, eh!?" Marty raged, the chords in his neck sticking out as his face turned purple. "It's not fuckin' right!"

"Ohhhhhh,  _Marty_ ," the Joker raised both gloved hands and dropped them on the Irishman's shoulders. There was a _swick!_  when he released the catch on a switchblade.  _"Please_  fuck off before I have to start takin' little bits and pieces of you for my personal collection."

The threat and the significant look accompanying it was enough to make Marty back off, shooting Harley a wary glance as he pulled his phone out again.

The Joker turned back to Harley, who had been watching the exchange between him and Marty closely. She realized then that whatever alliances he might appear to have were superfluous in moments like these when they became inconvenient for him. If he wanted to get from A to B quickly and you were in his way, he would mow you over, all too happily. Scorched earth destruction was his preferred means of doing things. He would destroy  _everything,_ not just if he thought he needed to, but if given half a chance.

"You've got your  _shrink_  face on," he informed her bitterly, wiggling his fingers at her, the knife still dangling from his thumb and forefinger like an extension of himself.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Harley demanded. " _Aside_  from the obvious. I was  _helping_  you."

"Oh! Is this the part where we talk about our  _feelings_?" He barked savagely, backing her up against the Camaro and gesturing wildly with the knife. "I  _feel_... like you have a tendency to...  _get in the way_." He narrowed his eyes, flapping his hands at her. " _Inserting_  yourself into every little corner you can  _find_."

Harley's eyes widened, because even if he was being a dick, he  _had_  just shared his feelings with her, and it was... unexpected and  _weird_  hearing him voice what he actually _felt,_  even if she could have guessed it herself.

"Listen to me," she growled, pushing away from the car, and when he refused to back off, she pushed her chest into his, raising up on her toes and getting in his face to show him she wasn't scared. It wasn't an act - Harley wasn't afraid of him anymore, and she needed to make him aware of that critical fact. "I... am not your  _toy_ ," she hissed, watching his eyes dart around her face. "You can't  _control_  me... and I will  _hurt_  you if you try."

He seemed suitably surprised, or even impressed by this posturing, his eyes glittering dangerously as Harley continued to glare up at him, making sure he knew she was not fucking around, and that her will was just as strong as his, if not more so. He glared back at her, licking his bottom lip reflexively and drawing her attention to his mouth, and that was all it took for the tension between them to ratchet up a few more notches in a more  _personal_  way. Neither of them relented, but now that unfortunate element of their relationship had snaked in between them, and Harley could feel herself leaning into it.  _Giving in_  to it.

She quickly slipped sideways, putting enough distance between them that she wouldn't be able to touch him, and his eyes followed her, watching silently as she smoothed her hair off her forehead and gestured to the club.

"You know Penguin will fuck everything up once he's in charge. That's why you agreed to help him be kingpin," she said, ignoring his blank stare. "You're taking care of the Italians. I took care of the Irish. The Russians will fall in line. Then  _you_  win, for whatever grand purpose you're doing this." She rolled her eyes, making sure he knew she thought his philosophy was bullshit.

But he just stood there, staring at her.

Marty stomped back to them then, his face calmed from purple back to righteous red, and there was a mean glint in his eyes that Harley had only seen when Mickey Sullivan was involved.

"Let's go pay these Sullivan cunts a fuckin' visit," he said to Harley, ignoring the Joker. "I want this fucker dead tonight, and I want this deal with that dead-lookin' cunt Penguin wrapped up tighter than a nun's gee on fuckin' Christmas."

"Good," Harley announced, flinging open the passenger door of the Camaro. "I need to kill something."

* * *

Harley was still fuming by the time they'd crossed the Narrows Bridge, though her temper had subsided from nuclear to extremely pissed. Watching the Joker attempt to fold his long body into the cramped backseat of Marty's Camaro had helped, but now Harley was hyper-aware of his presence behind her, the constant snapping of his thumbs flying over a phone reminding her that he was right there even if he was choosing not to be mouthy about it. She wondered if she would  _ever_  be able to be near him without feeling this rattled, furious, giddy, stupid, terrifying feeling that she could do  _nothing_  productive with.

But Harley had learned one very important thing about the Joker that evening. She could get under his skin. She  _was_  under his skin. That gave her power even if she wasn't sure what to do with it yet.

"What did you think of Penguin?" She asked Marty as they pulled off the Narrows Bridge.

Marty glanced at her sideways, his eyes lingering on her painted face before he turned back to the road. "Who fuckin' knows," he said, his nerves shot too.

It didn't take them long to find the theatre, an old art deco building that looked on the verge of collapsing in on itself at any minute. There were still yellowed fragments of posters for films in the mostly destroyed frames out front, and a few red letters were still clinging to the marquee. It looked like the kind of building that would appeal to a particular type of squatter with an eye for optics, which Harley supposed was Mickey Sullivan's motivation for choosing it to store his 'product.'

They boldly parked right across the street from the theatre with four empty lanes between them, and not a single car or person in sight. Once Marty cut the engine, he rested his arm on the back of Harley's seat and peered across the road, his lips pursed, and Harley could tell he was thinking...  _'now what?'_  They didn't have the men Penguin had promised, and after their exit from the Iceberg Lounge, Harley assumed there would need to be some form of reparations before they were entitled to ask. So that left the three of them against God only knew how many Sullivans.

Marty checked his phone. "The boys are on their way," he said, though he looked nervous about it, and Harley could see he was thinking that this impulsive battle could go  _very_  badly if they attempted to storm a huge theatre the same way they'd done the Stacked Deck. Strategy, it seemed, was not Marty's strong suit.

"Tell em' to park around the block," the Joker drawled from the backseat. "They'll know when it's time."

Harley rotated around to squint at him in the dark car. He was playing it cool, lounging across the backseat with one foot braced on the seat beside him, his pant leg riding up to expose a garish expanse of green and purple stripes, and she  _knew_  then he was up to something. Hopefully something  _helpful_  because she was shit out of ideas aside from offering herself up as bait again, which she was hoping to avoid.

Ten minutes later, Marty announced that his boys had arrived and were around the corner, and Harley realized he was putting his faith _entirely_  in the Joker to come up with something workable. It was almost inconceivable to Harley that Marty wouldn't even  _ask_  what was going on, but this was Marty's fight, not hers, so she remained quiet, listening to the tap, tap, tap of the Joker texting whoever he needed to get something out of.  _She_  certainly would not be trusting the Joker to pull off some great feat of brilliance. The last time she'd been involved in one of his plans she'd saved his ass from the Batman. And their first encounter with Bertinelli? He'd gotten shot that time, and she'd had to save his ass then too.  _Twice._

Twenty minutes later, a homeless man walked up the street toward them, the first person they'd seen since they arrived. He wore combat boots and sweatpants beneath an old army jacket, his beard scraggly and a beanie pulled down over his head, and he was carrying a duffle bag.

He stopped when he reached the Camaro and knocked on Harley's window.

"Get that for me, will ya, Harl," the Joker requested with such lightness that Harley drew her gun from its holster before she rolled the window down. The man shoved the duffle bag through the open window before immediately taking off up the street. Once Harley had rolled her window back up, she unzipped the bag to peer inside, needing  _some_  form of reassurance instead of blind faith.

The duffle bag was stuffed full of cash.  _Lots_  of cash. Crisp one hundred dollar bills neatly tied together with little rounds of white paper and rubber bands. Harley couldn't even begin to count it, but there had to be at least fifty thousand dollars there, and as she dipped her hand into the bag to touch the money the Joker reached between the front seats and snagged the bag away from her, dropping it carelessly on the floor beside his foot as he continued to lounge and text.

Harley looked to Marty for an explanation, but he just shrugged and lit a cigarette, opening his window a fraction to let the smoke out.

Another twenty minutes after that, a big black Range Rover came speeding up the street behind them. Harley turned to watch through the back window as the first car she'd seen thus far came to a screeching stop a few feet behind the Camaro.

"Lemme out, will ya, sweetheart," the Joker drawled, thumping on the back of Harley's seat.

There was something about him calling her _'sweetheart_ ' that was so impersonal and insincere that Harley found extremely upsetting. She tried to work out  _why_  it was upsetting as she climbed out of the car, and concluded that it was _supposed_  to be upsetting. He could strangle her and throw her around all he wanted, but treating her like she didn't matter was what got to her, and it was genuinely depressing and humiliating to have to acknowledge this about herself.

She shoved her hands in her coat pockets as she leaned against the hood of the Camaro, watching the Joker duck out of the car with more grace than she'd thought him capable of. Just as his feet hit the pavement, the backdoors of the Range Rover opened and two men wearing Adidas tracksuits and gold chains jumped out onto the darkened street.

"Hey, Joker man," smirked one of the men, his English heavily accented. "How you doin', man?"

 _Ah_ , Harley thought.  _The Russians._

"Oh, _fine_ ," the Joker replied lazily, throwing the duffle bag of cash between them with a flourish of his wrist.

"Yuri says to tell you fuck you, Joker man," the Russian said, shrugging helplessly and smirking as his friend knelt beside the duffle bag to fish around inside. "Don't blame the messenger, no?"

" _Never," t_ he Joker drawled, utterly indifferent to the Russian posturing.

Harley watched the scene unfold from her position against the hood of the car, unsure what to make of the casual but snappy bravado the Joker employed for the Russians.

"Oh,  _shit_ , Nikki," the Russian who had counted the money spotted Harley as he shouldered the duffle bag, his smirk turning lascivious. "That's Harley Quinn, man."

"Oh...  _yeah,"_  the Joker craned his head around to look at her like he'd forgotten she was there. "Uh, Harley, why dontcha come say  _hi_ ," he suggested, inclining his head toward the two Russians who had taken to snickering together in their mother tongue.

Feeling petulant, Harley pivoted away from the car and came to stand beside the Joker, hoping he wasn't planning on using her to make a point. To her surprise, he lifted his arm and dropped it over her shoulders, pulling her into his side.

"Harley likes... RPG-32s," he said, resting his chin on top of her hair. "And uh... throw in three or four thermobaric grenades while you're at it, huh fellahs."

Nikki muttered something uncertain under his breath in Russian while his friend warily circled to the back of the Range Rover and opened its trunk. Then together they carried something large and tubular wrapped in an old blanket around the car, setting it down on the street beside the Camaro just as Marty climbed out the driver's side. Harley tried to shake off the Joker's arm, but it was like lead across her shoulders, impliable and unmovable, so she settled for glaring at the Russians instead, waiting for them to give their snarky farewells before they got back in their Range Rover, and took off down the street.

"What the fuck is that?" Marty asked, pointing to the thing wrapped in blankets on the street, and only then did the Joker release Harley from his iron grip.

"A little somethin' from me to you, Marty," the Joker drawled, looking exceptionally pleased with himself. He dropped into a squat, resting one wrist on his knee as he shoved the blankets aside to reveal what almost certainly qualified as a rocket launcher. "Russian made," he added slyly, inspecting one of the four long grenades also wrapped in the blanket before he retrieved a phone from his pocket and tapped out a quick text, then rose back to his feet.

Harley blinked down at the instrument of death he had just acquired in a little under forty minutes and had to admit, she was pretty impressed.

The Joker spread his arms wide and cocked his head to the side as he smirked knowingly at Marty. "Wanna blow somethin' up?"

"Yer a fuckin' beautiful man, J," Marty grinned, slapping the Joker on the back jovially, showing a familiarity between them that Harley hadn't seen before.

Harley seemed to become invisible after that. While they huddled together over the rocket launcher, she leaned against the car, keeping an eye on the theatre across the street as she tried to envision how fast they would need to get the fuck out of there once the rocket launcher got put into action. That wasn't the kind of explosion the police  _wouldn't_  come check out, even if it was in the Narrows. It also wasn't the kind of explosion that would take out an entire building.

She turned around to see the Joker helping Marty get the rocket launcher up on his shoulder.

"I don't want to be a killjoy," she told them flatly. "But that thing's not going to destroy the building,"

The Joker's eyes were shining mischievously as he left Marty to deal with the rocket launcher on his own.

"Of course it won't," he said, angling himself in front of Harley. "It'll just scare the _rats_  out of their holes."

Harley looked across the street again. "Well, you may want to work a little faster." She pointed to two men who had appeared in front of the theatre, peering at them across the street. But Instead of looking in the direction she was pointing, the Joker placed a hand on each of Harley's shoulders and waited until she looked up at him.

" _You_  need to  _relax_ ," he informed her as soon as he had her attention. His red lips curled complacently as he slid his hands up and down her arms, squeezing her through her coat. "You're so...  _tense._ "

He was right, of course, but _he_  was the reason she was tense, and when he waggled his eyebrows at her, Harley knew he was happily aware of that.

"This was  _your_  idea," he continued like he was explaining something to a child. "You should  _enjoy_ watching it play out, hmm?"

Harley frowned, unsure what to make of this pep talk as he continued to stroke her arms almost  _comfortingly_ , and she narrowed her eyes up at him.

"Are you... trying to give me what you think I _need_  right now?" She asked, suspicious but also confused, because that would have shown more emotional intelligence than she'd thought him capable of.

He lifted one dubious eyebrow. " _I_  just wanna see you have some _fun_."

Before Harley had a chance to reply or think over what he'd said more thoroughly, there was a loud swooshing sound as Marty fired the first grenade across the street. It hit the marquee on the right side, exploding in a ball of flames that rocked the entire street as the front of the theatre began to collapse.

Marty whooped and hollered in delight as the Joker danced around him to get a second grenade loaded into the rocket launcher while Harley looked on, unable to stop a chuckle at the boyish picture they made together. She covered her ears with her hands when Marty launched the second grenade, which took out a massive chunk of the left side of the theatre, sending bricks and mortar crumbling as the entire structure wavered.

The Joker was helping Marty load the third grenade when the loud, unmistakable honking of a semi-truck filled the air, and just as Marty let off the third grenade such a truck came barrelling up the street behind them, its carriage waving precariously as it shot down the side of the theatre and came to a screeching stop that had its back wheels bouncing up off the concrete. No sooner did the truck come to a halt, its back doors flew open, and men in clown masks armed with all manner of firearms came stampeding out the back.

Harley's mouth fell open as she watched the men in clown masks storm the theatre—like an  _army_ —they ran through the crumbling front entrance hollering and screaming on their way into battle. Then an unmarked white van pulled up alongside the front of the theatre, and ten of Marty's boys joined the stampede of clowns.

Marty lowered the rocket launcher to the sidewalk, and once his boys arrived, he ducked back into the Camaro to grab a weapon of his own—a hatchet—which he waved over his head like a mad man before he took off running across the street, joining the fray.

"Shit," Harley whispered, reluctantly impressed, and she looked up at the Joker who was on the phone again. "This is crazy!" She laughed, drawing his attention.

"Havin' fun yet?" He winked caddishly and tucked his phone away before grabbing her hand, threading his fingers through hers. "C'mon."

Over the sounds of men fighting and dying and all manner of gunfire, the Joker led Harley across the street and up into the back of the semi-truck. It was stocked with drums of gasoline and a wooden crate containing what looked like the materials needed to make a bomb. He instructed Harley to get the van Marty's boys had arrived in and pull it up along the back of the semi, which Harley did without question, finally understanding that he had the situation under control. Once the van was in place, they rolled the drums of gasoline down a plank from the semi into the van until it was fully loaded, and then the Joker started on the bomb.

Well, maybe it wasn't a bomb. Harley didn't know for sure. There were bricks of dynamite, several lengths of wire coated in black rubber and a small motherboard. Working quickly, he combined the elements into something that sure did  _look_  like a bomb, laying it on top of the gas drums in the back of the van before he slammed the doors shut.

There was no way the Joker could have had a plan when they'd left the Iceberg Lounge less than two hours earlier. He didn't even know they'd be going to the Narrows before that. But somehow, in that small window of time, he'd managed to pull together  _all_  of this.

"C'mon," he said again, taking Harley by the hand and leading her around to the front of the van where he got behind the wheel and Harley jumped in the passenger seat, feeling like she was only just comprehending what was happening.

It had only been about fifteen minutes since the clowns arrived, but the fighting inside was already starting to die down, and Harley had to swallow her dissent when the Joker drove the van straight into what remained of the front of the theatre. The van's engine revved as it struggled to get past a fallen beam when they drove through a lobby littered with bodies, and then into the theatre itself where the real mayhem was taking place.

There were wooden pallets stacked all around the theatre, their contents obviously of a narcotic variety, and there were bodies everywhere. Harley thought it looked like a warzone, a feeling exemplified when Marty appeared on the stage in front of a torn cinema screen, his hatchet in one hand, a severed head he was holding by the hair in the other, roaring as he offered them both up to the room as proof of his victory. Some of the men left alive cheered back at him, but most seemed concerned with emptying the theatre of the Sullivans' products and getting the hell out of there.

"C'mon," the Joker said again. He grabbed Harley's hand, and they raced out of the theatre and across the street to wait beside the Camaro.

"There aren't any sirens," Harley noticed, taking a moment to listen. "How could the cops  _not_  come?"

The Joker's eyes widened innocently as he held his arms up in an exaggerated shrug, but Harley didn't buy that for a second.

"Come _on_ ," she gave him a beguiling smile, sliding her arms around his waist beneath his coat and turning her face up to him. "You can tell  _me_. You can  _trust_  me."

"Oh _really_ ," he chuckled, looking delighted as she made her most persuasive faces for him. "I'll think about it," he rasped, threading his fingers into her hair and pulling it tight.

Harley rose up on her toes to kiss him, feeling that worrying, giddy sensation racing through her stomach as she slid her tongue against his, and all she could think was...  _yes._

"Jesus Christ, you two," Marty's voice cut through Harley's thoughts, and she swung away from the Joker almost guiltily to find Marty standing there drenched in blood and still carrying the severed head.

"Who's that?" She asked, trying to decide if she was more disgusted or intrigued as something red and soupy slipped out of what remained of the neck, and splattered on the sidewalk.

"Mickey Sullivan," the Joker filled in for her. "Or it _was_. Whaddya gonna do with that head, Marty?"

"Think I'll use it for football," Marty grinned nastily and mimed kicking the head.

"I've got a better idea," Harley pointed at Marty. "Get a box and send it to Yuri Dimitrov. Let him know who's running the Eastside now."

Marty's eyes widened. "Ohhh, Harley Quinn," he grinned, the blood spatter across his face making him look deranged. "A man could easily fall in love with you."

Harley laughed, feeling strangely content in this weird moment where she didn't have to try for anything.

Then the Joker held up a device that could only be the detonator to the bomb they'd built. Plastic and metal fused with an old radio antenna, it was sloppily made, and Harley frowned at it, trying to decide when this had appeared. Had he just been carrying it around all day, or had it been delivered with the other materials in the semi-truck?

She realized he was offering it to her and she took it gingerly, examining the square, red plastic button she supposed she would have to push to initiate the explosion.

"Are we far enough away?" She asked, frowning, and the Joker flung his head back and laughed. Not the shrill, maniacal laugh that always came at the worst times, but a rough, throaty laugh that vibrated from his chest. When he looked at Harley again, she grinned stupidly and pushed the button on the detonator. A second later there was a blast on the other side of the street, and what remained of the theatre began to crumble, the clowns and O'Rileys scattering with what they could carry of the Sullivan 'product'.

"C'mon," the Joker retook Harley's hand and started pulling her down the street, away from the slowly demolishing building.

"Where are we going?" she asked breathlessly as he tugged her into an alley. In the distance, she  _finally_  heard police sirens, but this time, she wasn't worried.  _Why_  would she be worried?

"Uh, to get a room  _obviously,_ " he replied, making Harley laugh as they came out on the other side of the alley onto a narrow street lined with half-shuttered shops and a few hotel signs. On the corner, prostitutes were gathered together, whispering as they pointed in the direction of the explosion.

Harley forced the Joker to stop long enough to wipe the paint off their faces with the collars of their coats. Then they dodged into a hotel called the Valencia, an establishment primarily catering to the prostitutes and their clientele.

Harley pushed a thousand dollars toward an old woman stationed behind a plastic, bulletproof partition while the Joker kept his back to them. The old woman took a drag off her Marlborough Red, keeping her eyes on the money instead of Harley as she wordlessly slid a set of keys through the partition window.

"Thanks," Harley grinned, snatching up the keys and turning to jangle them suggestively at the Joker. He snorted and grabbed her by the elbow before half-dragging her up a wonky staircase with Harley chasing after him so he wouldn't pull her arm out of the socket.

When they reached the top, Harley rushed him, slamming him back against the wall. She grabbed his tie and pulled his face down to hers, thrusting her arm under his coat to curl around his waist and squeeze him closer. She felt him chuckle against her lips, and Harley pulled back to glare at him playfully, then wrapped his tie around her hand, pulling it tight to give him a firm tug that made him stagger after her down the hallway to their room.

He pushed her up against the door as she fumbled with the keys, his hand dipping under her dress to slide up her thigh and over her hip. Harley's head fell forward against the door as she struggled to get the key in the lock, distracted when the Joker slipped his hand into her underwear, humming happily in her ear.

Somehow, the key slid into the lock and the door swung open, and the Joker grabbed Harley by both arms and practically threw her into the room, slamming the door behind him.

It was a small room with a double bed flanked by creaky-looking tables and a TV propped up on a spindly table opposite the bed. The ceiling was waterlogged, and everything looked sticky; it was the kind of room you wouldn't want to look at with a blacklight, but it was more than good enough for them.

Harley shucked her coat immediately, then struggled to get out of her boots before tugging her dress off over her head. Her arms got caught in the long sleeves making her fight to free herself, the fact that she was laughing making it even more difficult. By the time she was free, the Joker had stripped down to the purple trousers and was hopping on one foot to peel off his remaining sock, making Harley laugh again as she shoved him back on the bed.

He landed with a melodramatic 'oof' and made a bad joke about Harley being too rough as she fell on top of him. She was grinning hard as she lowered her mouth to his neck, running her hands over him. All over him. Over his sides, squeezing his waist and scratching his ribs, down his lanky arms to his hands and back up again to his shoulders and his neck, then over his jaw and his face to his hair which she pulled while she shamelessly rubbed herself against his leg and licked at his pulse, which was leaping against her lips.

He wrapped his arm around her back, squeezing her hard before flipping them over, dislodging Harley's mouth from his neck. He braced his hands on either side of her then straightened his elbows, so he was hovering over her, and Harley's head fell back, her heart pounding as she gazed up at him through hooded eyes, her lips parting as she waited to see what he would do.

His eyes were darting around her face as he examined her, and instead of that grim seriousness she'd become accustomed to there was something more open in his expression this time. Something alive and  _present_. He exhaled shortly through his nose and grabbed her cheek roughly, still staring at her hard like he was trying to understand something, then his tongue snaked out to lick his bottom lip.

" _Shit_ ," he huffed incredulously, making Harley laugh as she closed her eyes.

He retreated from her then, crawling off the bed and standing, raking his hair off his forehead as his eyes slid over her. Harley stretched out, her arms tangling together over her head as her legs straightened and her toes pointed, willing him to come back to her. He gave her one of those rare, private smiles that made his eyes crinkle up at the corners before he slipped his hands behind her knees and pulled her closer to the edge of the bed, yanking off her underwear. Then there was that familiar  _swick!_  of a knife opening, but before Harley could work out where it had come from, he'd sliced through the middle of her bra, the cups falling sideways.

She was almost annoyed. Almost. But then the Joker lowered himself down on the bed between her knees, her legs butterflying open for him as his hands curled around her waist. He bowed forward to press his mouth to her stomach, his tongue dipping into her navel as his palms slid down her sides to wrap around her hips. Harley's eyes closed, and she exhaled slowly as his mouth moved down her abdomen while his fingers inched up the inside of her thigh. Then he was stroking her intimately with his thumb, making her hum quietly.

He chuckled, and Harley lifted her head to see him smirking up at her as he touched her.

 _"What?"_  She demanded breathlessly, her voice cracking.

"Oh,  _nothing_ ," he lifted one amused eyebrow at her, then lifted his thumb to his lips and licked it, smirking as he tasted her. " _I'm_  just happy  _you're_  happy," he explained smugly.

Harley scoffed as her head fell back against the sticky bedspread. "You're such an egomania- _ahh_..."

She trailed off when he finally lowered his mouth to her, his hands curling around her hips as he buried his face between her legs.

* * *

**A/N: Aww. Gotta throw in a romance novel trope or two to keep things fun.**

**Next: Harley and the Joker get to know each other a little better, and Harley continues working on her special project.**


	18. Chapter 18

The Harlequin

18.

* * *

Harley and the Joker arrived at the Valencia hotel around dawn, and they spent the remainder of that day in bed, alternating between napping and indulging in one another.

It was getting dark when Harley looked at her phone and found an irate text from Penguin about the Joker shooting up his kitchen when he had a club full of rich people drinking next door. She read it out loud to the Joker, doing her best Penguin impression which made them both giggle sleepily. Penguin could be mad all he wanted, Harley was rubbery and relaxed in a moderately comfortable bed, and it seemed absurd to be worried about Oswald Cobblepot when she knew what the Joker was capable of.

Harley fell back asleep for a little while, curled up on her side facing the window, and when she woke up, she could smell cigarette smoke hanging in the air and feel the Joker's hand tangled in her hair, his fingers tensing and relaxing rhythmically against her scalp.

"Ya know what  _really_  surprised me? Which,  _by the way,_ is hard to do..." he said suddenly, his voice raspy. They hadn't spoken much to each other over their day in bed, but it hadn't felt necessary. Besides, Harley didn't know what they could  _discuss,_ considering his penchant for secrecy. "When you killed one of my boys after I told ya to kill that Maroni snitch."

Harley rolled over to face him, her eyes bleary with sleep. He was smoking a rolled cigarette and frowning as he prodded his bottom lip with his tongue. Harley wasn't sure if she was more surprised by his candor or that he had been sitting there reflecting on that night at the pier instead of plotting something appalling.

"I mean, I  _knew_  you were a pistol," he continued, running his tongue over his teeth. "At least for  _Arkham_. It's not hard to be the most interesting person  _there_. But then I take ya out to the pier, you're scared shitless, and I thought, I should give her an opportunity to...  _experience_  something or at least the  _choice_... just to keep things interesting."

Harley remained silent as she watched him talk, fascinated by his version of the events of that evening.

"And you're standin' there in that  _dress,_ covered in _blood,_ looking fucking  _crazy._  Like  _Carrie_  or something. And instead of going right or left, you went over the fucking  _cliff_."

He pursed his lips while Harley remained quiet, digesting what he'd said. She was so unused to him sharing his private thoughts that she wasn't sure whether or not to trust it. But she also didn't know why he would make it up, especially when it was so close to her own version of events. It was just hard to believe that he thought about that night, or even thought about her at all, considering how obsessed he was with himself.

"You liked my dress?" Harley asked lightly, a sleepy smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.

He stubbed out what remained of his cigarette on the spindly side table before rolling toward her, a low chuckle vibrating in his throat as he reached for her.

"You're  _so_  funny," he growled, his hand skating up her leg and over her hip before he yanked her closer.

* * *

The evening stretched on, but neither of them made a move to leave even though neither of them had eaten anything for at least a day.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" Harley asked him after they'd not spoken for a long stretch. He was lying on his stomach with his head turned away from her, and Harley was on her side facing him, examining the lines of lightly defined muscle in his back. His body was all long, lean muscle, a product of living a chaotic life on the run, never resting, never stopping. "Important chaos inducing work to be doing?" She smirked.

He twisted to face her, his hair curling boyishly over one eye as he raised an eyebrow at her. "It's not  _all_  action and explosions, ya know," he drawled. "There's a lot of waiting... and it's  _always_  boring."

Harley ran her fingers over his shoulder blades, noticing a few light freckles like she'd seen on his arm when she stitched him up, and she remembered thinking that meant at one point he'd been outside in the sun with his shirt off. There was a knotted scar just above one shoulder blade, maybe a knife wound that had been poorly sutured— maybe he'd done that one himself— but otherwise, he was remarkably unblemished for someone so fond of violence.

"This isn't so bad for waiting," she observed, tracing her middle finger over a few vertebrae, and feeling him twitch under her touch. She smiled as he flipped onto his back, and her hand landed on his chest.

"This  _does_  beat hanging out with fuckin' Lonnie," he agreed, looking down at her hand as her fingers moved over his ribs to rub a bruise there.

"I hate Lonnie," Harley said sourly, lightly scratching him to make her point.

The Joker made a face like he was inclined to agree with her. "He's useful," was all he said.

Useful, Harley thought. Useful was the only reason he kept people around because to him other people were only good for what they could do for him. That begged the question of why Harley was being kept around. What was she useful for aside from sex and good company, or were those good enough reasons for him? And if so, how was Harley supposed to feel about it? She couldn't decide, laying there, touching him while he watched her, she couldn't decide how she felt about any of it.

He shifted without pushing her away, stuffing a pillow behind him, so he was propped up as he reached for the remote on the bedside table. He surfed through the channels until he found GCN's late-night show,  _Taking Sides with Arturo Rodriguez!,_ where pundits argued over the day's news. Then he reached for Harley, hooking his lanky arm around her shoulders and roughly pulling her close so she was tucked tight against his side, her head on his chest. She wasn't sure what was happening at first, not being an especially cuddly person by nature and knowing he absolutely was not either, but here they were anyway, watching the nightly news as she listened to his evil little heart thump away inside his chest.

The big news of the day was the theatre bombing, which the GCPD was saying bore all the hallmarks of a Joker attack though they weren't sure why he would choose to destroy an abandoned theatre in the Narrows. Rodriguez was a big fan of the Batman, and he and his panel of pundits were discussing what it meant that the Joker and Harley Quinn had been seen fleeing the scene.

Harley laughed softly at the name the media had given her, and then something occurred to her.

She lifted her head, so she was eye level with the Joker, and squinted at him appraisingly until his gaze swung from the news to her.

"Did you pay someone to say they saw us leaving the scene?" She asked, her lips twisting into a knowing smirk.

His mouth twitched, and she knew then that he definitely had. "Uh...I paid them to say _I_  was there," he clarified. "I don't know _why_  they're talkin' about  _you_."

She shook her head and lay back down on his chest, watching the news talk about them. Of course, the Joker was loving hearing himself being talked about, and when they switched to a discussion about the DA elections, Harley heard him hum unhappily.

After Arturo Rodriguez's show finished, a rerun of  _Real Housewives of Gotham_  came on, and Harley gasped happily as the opening credits started to roll, earning herself a bizarre look from the Joker.

"It's my favorite show," she explained, nestling into his side with a stupid smile on her face. She could feel him looking at her, frowning like he didn't understand something as he settled back against the headboard to watch the drama of Gotham's wealthiest women unfold.

Harley was  _very_  entertained to hear the Joker suck in an apprehensive breath when Savannah Kane began accusing her fellow housewives of being jealous bitches over cocktails. He drummed his fingers on Harley's back as the argument bubbled over into a screaming match, and when Savannah threw her drink at the wall, he giggled in delight.

The credits started to roll, and the Joker grabbed Harley by the arm, moving her back so he could look her in the eye, and frowning like he wasn't sure what he'd just seen.

"That was  _real?_ " he demanded.

"Just wait," Harley grinned, shoving him back so she could collapse on top of him again. "Made in the Diamond District is next. It's even better."

"Uh huh," the Joker hummed dubiously, but after an hour of watching Gotham's most spoiled brats plot and scheme and fuck each other, he turned to Harley again. "Those people are.. _._ " He closed his eyes and hummed low in his throat, almost a purr. " _Diabococle,"_ he settled on at last.

Harley laughed, knowing that was high praise from the Joker.

* * *

Harley slept hard through the night and woke up around dawn, a solid twenty-four hours since they locked themselves in the hotel room. She felt the Joker shifting around beside her, then she heard a lighter click as he lit a cigarette, and she rolled onto her side to face him, contemplating the simplicity of laying in bed beside the most dangerous man in Gotham, comfortable and satiated and calm and even  _happy_. Maybe it only made sense in that room, within those four walls, removed from a world that cast them in more specific roles.

"How did that uh...  _play out_ ," he asked suddenly. He had his back braced against the headboard, and one leg bent at the knee, the tangle of sheets kicked to the bottom of the bed. "After Bruno  _dragged_  you away that night at the pier."

Harley pillowed her head on her arms, shifting so she could look up at him, watching smoke curl out of his nostrils like a dragon. "What do you mean?" She frowned, wondering what it was about that night that he thought about it so frequently.

"I _mean_  people have all kinds of..." he rotated his hand, his cigarette leaving spirals of smoke hanging in mid-air as he searched for the word. " _Reactions_  to killing for the first time."

Harley licked her lips and fought with herself briefly over what she ultimately told him next.

"That wasn't the first time I killed someone," she said, lifting her eyes to look at him.

His head rolled toward her, his eyes glowing wickedly as a smirk began to spread across his face. He flicked his cigarette away, then slipped down to lay beside her, mirroring her position on his side with his hands folded under his head. " _Do_  tell."

"Well..." Harley started uncertainly. She had never told this story before. In fact, it was something she had pushed to the very back of her mind for years, pretending it had never happened for her own sanity. "I had this... boyfriend when I was in college."

"Ooooh,  _I_  see," the Joker widened his eyes, and when Harley didn't continue, he shifted closer to her, poking her in the ribs. "Go on. Tell me."

Harley bit her lip, wondering why he was asking her to tell him about herself. Not toying with her, but actually wanting to know about her past. Granted, this was quite a salacious story about murdering someone, and right up his street, so she tried to focus on how to tell it instead of trying to figure out what it meant that he was interested in what she had to say.

"We started going out in my sophomore year at GU. I was going through a phase. A  _fun_  phase," she smiled when he looked particularly amused by this statement. "You know, I worked really hard to get away from the whole  _poor_   _orphan_  thing so I was this very serious kid until I got to college and could have fun for a change. I finally got to...  _unclench._ " She sighed, thinking back. "And I met this fun, normal guy and we went out for a year being this fun, normal couple. All I'd  _ever_  wanted was to be normal. But he was... needy."

"Needy?" The Joker's eyebrows rose knowingly, the corner of his mouth twitching up. "Does this have somethin' to do with you believing love is for  _children_?"

Harley's pulse leaped, and she found herself struggling to believe that he'd remembered the  _exact_  phrasing she'd used to describe her thoughts on love during one of their conversations at Arkham.

"Yes," she said quietly, her eyes darting to his shoulder so she wouldn't have to look him in the eye as she tried to shake off some unhelpful giddiness. "I wasn't normal like him. When I was a kid, I thought I was weird because of where I came from, but after a few years of pretending in college, I realized that it was me, not my situation— and having to pretend made me... unhappy. Having him insist I tell him I loved him made me...  _angry._  And we had this fight one night that got out of control, and I just lost it."

She met the Joker's gaze again. His eyes were dark and serious now as he listened to her intently.

"I mean  _completely_  lost it," she continued, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling. "It was just so  _unfair_  that he wanted me to be something I'm not. Like I was  _defective,_  and he wanted to  _fix_  me. And uh..." She bit her lip, feeling reluctant to say the next part out loud. "There was a hammer on the counter that he'd been using it to hang a picture for me... It was just  _there_ , right next to me, so I grabbed it and hit him with it. And then I kept hitting him until he was dead."

" _Jesus_ ," the Joker looked delighted now, and Harley couldn't help but laugh at him for it, relieved for some levity. "How'd ya get away with it?" He asked, shifting forward.

"God," Harley winced. "You know that big ugly building at Gotham University? Well, the fine art department is on the top floor, and they let the art students come and go all night, so it was never really closed. I managed to get him down to his car and drove him over there... and I put him in this supply crate that  _could_  have been art supplies. Then I took him up to the roof... and pushed him off."

"That building's gotta be fifteen stories," the Joker mused, his eyes searching her face. "A body wouldn't be in great shape from that height."

"Exactly. The fact that his skull might have caved in _before_  he fell didn't occur to anyone," Harley continued, remembering the sheer panic that had been racing through her that whole night. She'd pushed it so far to the back of her mind that it didn't feel like it was her who had done those things.

"So, what happened next?" He coaxed. "Ya got away with it."

"Well, yeah, but my friends couldn't believe he would kill himself and... they knew we'd been fighting," she pursed her lips. "And I just kinda... faded away from them. I was so shocked by myself; I wanted to hide and try to be normal again. And I committed myself to that."

 _"I_  see," the Joker smirked, his hand closing around Harley's upper arm, tugging her closer. "That's when you got that massive  _stick_  up your ass."

Harley laughed and allowed herself to be manhandled on top of him as he scooted down the bed, trying to get her to straddle his face.

"I can't," Harley laughed helplessly, still sensitive after the previous day in bed with him. But she held onto the headboard anyway as he got her situated over him. "Seriously, I can't..."

Despite her protestations, he'd run his tongue over her experimentally, and Harley's nails dug into the headboard as she braced herself against it.

He pulled back to look up at her, his dark eyes shining. "Oh, I don't know," he said with a lazy smirk. "I think maybe you can."

It turned out he was right, and afterward, as Harley lay beside him with her hair fanned out around her on the sheets, she smiled sweetly at him.

"Was that a reward?" She asked, still basking in the glow of pleasure and not thinking about what she was saying. "For killing my college boyfriend with a hammer?"

"Uh..." the Joker lifted a curious eyebrow at her. "I'm  _pretty_  sure I just wanted to lick your pussy, Harley."

She dissolved into weak laughter, thinking that was the best possible answer she could have ever received.

* * *

Then that afternoon, after a few hours of silence where Harley stopped worrying and reflecting and analyzing and was simply enjoying herself, something occurred to her. One of the very first questions she'd had for the Joker. She rolled over to face him. He had his arm hooked under the pillow, laying on his side facing her, his eyelids drooping as he dozed.

"How did you know I was an orphan?" She asked carefully.

It was a question that was really about her, so she figured he'd be likely to answer it, unlike a question about him.

_Where did you come from, how did you get the scars, who was the first person you killed, why are you the way you are..._

_What's your real name..._

"Uh, lucky guess," he said, keeping his eyes half-closed.

"Really?" Harley asked incredulously, remembering the night after their first session when she'd obsessed over how he'd been able to deduce that about her, and she'd wondered if she was so obvious to everyone else.

" _Well,"_  he added, his eyes still closed. "Takes one to know one."

Harley felt like her heart had stopped beating. Part of her wasn't sure she'd heard him right.

"Oh," she said weakly, bewildered that he had given up this piece of information so casually. "That was my guess about you too."

His eyes opened then, and he was smirking at her like he knew what she was really thinking, and there was something wolfish in his expression that was daring her to ask those other questions about his past, probably so he could evade them and make her feel foolish, and when she didn't ask he did it for her.

" _So..._  what happened to  _your_  folks?" he drawled, rolling onto his back and bracing an arm behind his head, his face tipping toward her so he could see her.

Harley sighed evasively. This was something she'd told multiple people over the years. Joan, Dana, the dead boyfriend, the girls in college. It wasn't incriminating, it was just sad, though she had always felt removed from the story. Like she wasn't part of it. She attributed this feeling of distance to a coping mechanism but considering her recently-accepted ability to murder without remorse, perhaps there was more to it.

"My mother died of cancer when I was three," Harley said, unemotionally. "I don't remember her at all. My father drank to cope with it, and by the time I was in kindergarten, he'd graduated to heroin."

"Oooh," the Joker cringed. "That stuff'll kill ya."

Harley shot him a reproachful look for making a bad joke about her dead father, but that didn't stop her small smile.

"I learned to look after myself," she shrugged. "Then, one day in third grade, I came home after gymnastics, and he was sitting on the couch with a needle in his arm, and he was dead."

"Sounds traumatizing," the Joker observed mildly.

"Probably," Harley agreed. "Joan always said I'm remarkably well adjusted for experiencing so much trauma at a young age."

"Yeah, you're  _real_  well adjusted," the Joker deadpanned, making her chuckle. "Who's _Joan_?"

"Joan Leland, my PhD mentor," Harley explained, and he nodded slowly, pursing his lips.

" _Joan's_  not wrong, ya know," he continued thoughtfully. "Foster homes?  _Most_  kids end up on the street before they get their short and curlies."

"In Gotham," Harley agreed, wondering if this comment was a tell about his history. "In Metropolis they pay their social workers a decent salary and the system is better organized, so people don't fall through the cracks. I got moved around a lot, but they kept me in the same school, and I went to the same gymnastics studio, so there was some stability despite the home life situation."

The Joker rolled onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow as he squinted down at her, a faint smirk playing around the corners of his mouth. " _Metropolis_ , huh?"

"Yeah," Harley smiled, then after a beat, she impulsively asked something she'd been wondering about on and off since she'd met him. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-eight," he replied lazily, like this banal piece of information wasn't a closely guarded secret. It wasn't when you compared it to killing your boyfriend, but coming from him, the mysterious Joker who appeared out of thin air, who no one knew anything about including his name, who never answered a question with a straight answer, it felt exceptionally personal.

"Me too," she told him, feeling almost drunk on this private, personal moment between them.

And it was so _easy_  that she decided to try one more.

"Why did you blind Burrows?" She squinted at him. "You know, the orderly at Arkham? I understood the bite mark. I brought that one on him myself." They both chuckled. "But why blind him?"

"Ah,  _yeah._  I wanted to see how close you were payin' attention to the guards," he said, smiling like he was reminiscing on a fond memory from long ago.  _"Obviously_  not very close at  _all_. You couldn't have given  _less_  of a shit."

Harley laughed incredulously, remembering her feelings on Burrows getting maimed had primarily consisted of confusion and concern for herself.

"So why the eyes?" She pushed, still chuckling.

 _"Burrows_  would not shut up about your  _ass_ ," the Joker replied, shooting her a meaningful look. "He would  _stare_  at it whenever you weren't looking and uh,  _frankly_ , I was embarrassed for the guy."

Harley's eyes widened, and she covered her face with her hands, laughing helplessly. When she pulled her hands away, the Joker was prodding his bottom lip with his tongue and smirking at her faintly, affectionately.

"And you were  _oblivious_  to him _,"_  he continued, his eyes sweeping over her. "Mean,  _aloof,_ unattainable  _Doc-_ tor Quinzel with her  _tight_  ass in her gray  _slacks_. Mmm... who could have guessed there was such a  _weirdo_  inside just  _dying_  to get out," he practically growled this last statement, making Harley's eyes widen at the unexpected  _sharing_ , and she could feel herself beaming as she rolled onto her back, wagging two fingers at him, gesturing for him to come closer.

"Come here," she said, feeling coy.

His mouth curved into a pleased smirk as he shifted to hover over her.

"So _demanding_ ," he muttered, bending his head to kiss her.

* * *

Harley napped for a little while after that, and when she woke up the bed beside her was empty. She blinked sleepily at the empty space, feeling a little numb that he was just  _gone_ , and she willed herself not to feel upset over it. That was always how it was going to be, and a day or two in bed together did not miraculously change that fact. Whatever it was they were doing, it seemed to be working for the moment, but it was not sustainable, just like staying in that hotel room forever was not sustainable.

Then the bathroom door creaked open, and the Joker stepped out, folding a straight-edged razor closed and tossing it on the heap of his coat. Harley watched him run a hand over his jaw as he strolled back to the bed. He had been in the bathroom shaving. He was still there with her. At least he was for now.

Harley rolled onto her back, kicking the covers away as he reached the bed and lifted a curious eyebrow at her. She held his gaze as she lifted her hand to her chest, then slowly let her fingers drift down, grazing over her breast and the flat expanse of her stomach until she reached her thighs. The Joker cocked his head to the side, intrigued by this development as he followed the path of her hand with his eyes, licking his lips reflexively when she started to touch herself.

He braced one knee on the bed, keeping his distances as he watched her intently, his eyes moving between her hand and her steady gaze, and after a minute or two of indulging in this visual treat, his arousal growing hard until it was bobbing against his stomach, he crawled between her legs and moved her hand away, replacing it with his own. Harley's eyes closed, the current of desire dragging her back under as her body began to feel electric. Then he stretched out alongside her and rolled her onto her side so her back was to him, his hand still working between her legs as Harley arched into him.

She murmured the syllable that stood for his name when he lifted her thigh, and then again, louder when he sank into her, pulling her hips back to meet his. He fucked her slowly and lazily like that, his hand drifting from her breasts, down her stomach, between her legs and back again until Harley was a languid, vibrating mess. And when she came, it was slow and deep, and even when the waves of pleasure had subsided, she told him not to stop.

* * *

It had grown dark again, and Harley was trying not to concentrate on the fact that they couldn't stay there forever. At some point, the 'waiting' period would be over, and the action period would begin, but she was enjoying every lingering second of it while it lasted.

She was laying on her stomach, the Joker's palm resting lightly on her lower back, his fingers occasionally drifting up her spine. Harley closed her eyes, indulging in the feeling and hoping he wouldn't stop. Then he hummed quietly, and Harley lifted her head to look at him.

"Wouldn't it be  _funny,"_ he said thoughtfully, his tongue poking out to prod his scarred lip. "If you spent  _years_  becoming an expert on psychopaths only to find out that actually... you  _are_  one."

Harley stared at him, trying to decide if there was an ulterior motive in his calling her on something she'd been wrestling with for weeks.

"I've been thinking about it," she admitted slowly. "And I've decided it doesn't matter."

His head snapped around to face her, and he looked genuinely amused by this revelation. "Harley, are you saying  _labels_  don't matter?" He smirked.  _"Revolutionary_."

"I'm saying I have... reconsidered my position on several things recently," she replied evasively, and he hummed in agreement.

"Poor little orphan, just trying to make it in the world," he sing-songed. "Always _so_  concerned with being normal because there's this...  _storm_  inside her. Workin' hard and keeping her head down, but she can't escape the fact that she's  _always_  been a killer."

Harley rolled onto her side, pulling the sheet with her as she peered up at him curiously.

"Now you're swimming right in the middle of the chaos, and you're tryin' to figure where  _you_  fit in," he continued mildly. "Ya want my advice? The only way to survive it... is to  _give in_ to it _. Don't_  try to control it, cause it will  _eat_  you alive."

Harley pressed her lips together and looked down at the bed, feeling small and obvious that he had managed to package her situation into a few neat sentences, and she couldn't help wondering how much his 'advice' had to do with keeping her from inserting herself into his plans as she had done by introducing Marty to Penguin. Giving her council under the guise of  _helping her,_  which required empathy he wasn't capable of when he was just helping himself. It made her feel vaguely sick.

He was staring down at her impassively as she contemplated his 'advice' from another angle. The impossible idea of  _giving in_. She couldn't just _relent_ and stop trying, not for the sake of potentially finding some imaginary zen state within chaos. She had to dig out her place in the  _real_  world, claw the dirt free from the rocks and plant her feet. That was all she knew how to do, and she couldn't just  _exist_  as he did.

Was he asking her to try?

To try with  _him_?

Harley shut her eyes, recalibrating as she realized this train of thought was futile and counterproductive and based in part on the fact that something as pointless as learning how old he was made her feel like she'd seen beyond the curtain. His  _age_ was hardly  _personal._

"That's a nice theory," Harley said coldly, her determination renewed, her heart hardened. "But I'm not so sure it's that simple."

"Ohh, I would be _very_  disappointed if it was," the Joker purred, rolling her over so she was on her back and he was hovering over her. "You still have some  _very_  interesting choices left to make."

Harley stared up at him, trying to understand what he meant. If he knew something she didn't or if he was trying to nudge her in the direction of his choosing for his own  _entertainment_. That's what her interesting choices were to him after all. Entertainment. Remembering that made her expression sour, because all the questions about where she came from and who she was, they could easily be more of that.

Looking away from him, Harley snuck her phone out from under the pillow and checked the time. If she left within an hour, she would make it to the dive bar in time to catch Joe, who she had abandoned completely the night before. She could stay with the Joker, and wait with him for as long as he needed to. She could ditch her plans for his, and this comfortable, heady companionship. But that wasn't something that would last.

A big part of Harley wanted to. Wanted to say fuck it, and  _give in_. But she couldn't let herself do that, because it wouldn't be long before he took off without her, or she stopped being  _entertaining._  She had a project of her own. One that could end in a way that made their clash at the Iceberg Lounge look like a pillow fight. It didn't even matter whether he was suggesting she give up  _control_  for her own sake or his. Maybe it was both, but it didn't matter. Not in the grand scheme of things.

"I have to go," she said slowly, watching him react to her words. His eyebrows twitched, and his lips flattened, but he didn't look surprised, just mildly disappointed, and she wondered if this was one of those choices he so enjoyed watching her make like his personal dancing bear.

"Look at  _you_ ," he hummed, his eyes roving over her face. "Comfortable enough being a killer but still so...  _clenched_."

Harley bristled at the accusation, and that he was using her own words against her. She couldn't bring herself to dispute it out loud, choosing instead to stare back at him stubbornly, trying to find a trace of anything she could work with in his dark, narrowed eyes. But there was nothing there for her except intense scrutiny while he waited for her to prove she wasn't clenched, or maybe to ask him to show her  _how. N_ either of those things were going to happen, so she did the only other thing she could, and slipped sideways off the bed and away from him.

As Harley picked up her discarded underwear and dress, she heard him sigh quietly behind her. Not one of those performative, aggrieved sighs, but like he'd lost a bet with himself, and when she turned around again, his attention was on his phone instead of her. She shook her head and pulled on her boots, imagining how the conversation she knew he would love to have might go.

_'Oh, please, J! Tell me how! How do I unclench? How do I give myself over to the arms of chaos? Help me, please_ _!'_

As she threaded her arms through her shoulder holster, she saw him smirking slyly at her.

 _"What?_ " She snapped, bending to pick up her coat.

"You look like you wanna kill me," he observed drily. "I'm just trynna figure out  _why_."

Harley glared at him as she shrugged on her coat, finding being irritated at him safe and easy, even as he sat there naked with messy hair and the sheets pooled around his waist instead of dressed up like a psychotic clown. It was the same infuriating man, and she could still be just as irritated with him looking like this.

 _"Well..._?" He pushed, trying to get her to engage him again, but Harley was sick of the room and sick of him now too.

She turned around and left without saying another word to him, mostly because she couldn't think of anything to say.

* * *

Harley caught a cab back to Grin's, too emotionally numb to worry about getting caught. The numbness settled over her as she watched the city swing past out the window, morphing from the Narrows to Downtown to the Eastside. All piece of shit neighborhoods with slight variations in style. All proof that Gotham was a hellhole for a majority of its citizens. Back at Grin's, Harley snuck up the fire escape and treated herself to a shower, scrubbing away two days of sex and the Joker until her skin was pink and raw. Smelling him on her was not an option. After she'd changed into jeans and Roxy's cropped sweatshirt, she drove Downtown, stopping at the pizza place near the dive bar to feed herself for the first time in two days, before returning to the dive bar to wait for Joe over a shot of rum, her misery drink, ruminating on her last encounter with the Joker.

Luckily she wasn't left alone with rum and her thoughts for long. Joe appeared at her elbow at 10.30 on the dot, looking anxious and concerned, which was very like Joe.

"You're okay?" He demanded, almost sounding angry. "Ann, where the hell were you last night?"

"Boyfriend problems," Harley said vaguely.

"You have a boyfriend?" He looked taken aback.

Harley sighed, knowing she was handling this all very badly and gestured for Joe to follow her to the booth so they wouldn't draw the attention of other patrons at the bar. Once Joe was sitting across from her, his coat still on, his face tense, Harley placed her hand on his forearm and spoke slowly.

"It's nothing you need to worry about," she explained gently, squeezing his arm to comfort him, and he nodded distractedly. "Can I meet Freddi tonight?" Harley asked carefully.

"Yeah," Joe nodded, still distracted. Was it because of the _boyfriend_  thing? "I can drive."

Harley followed Joe out to his car and laughed weakly at his awkward joke about not being used to having someone in the passenger seat. She kept her hands in her coat pockets and her eyes focused out the window as Joe drove them Uptown, his nervous energy permeating the car and making Harley anxious too.

Joe parked in his usual spot outside Freddi's townhouse, and Harley followed close behind him up the short flight of steps to the stained glass front door. She had spent hours upon hours staring that door, wondering what could be on the other side, and now she was finally here, and she didn't care that it was a small but beautifully-decorated hallway with slate floors and a spindly table sporting a bouquet of purple flowers. There were two doors, marked A and B, and outside A was the stroller Harley had seen a young couple pushing whenever they came or went.

"They split these townhouses up a few decades back," Joe filled in when he saw Harley looking at the stroller. "Freddi owns the ground floor and the basement even though he doesn't really need that much space."

Harley nodded mutely, not caring in the slightest, and waited for Joe to finish unlocking 'B' before she followed him inside.

Joe led her into a large living room that looked like it had once been a lovely reception area, with high ceilings and huge bay windows and elegant crown molding. But that was all that remained of the classy Uptown townhouse. No matter how hard Joe may have tried to keep up appearances, it was obviously a drug den, and slumped in the corner of the couch beneath the bay window, staring blindly at a muted television, was Freddi Maroni.

"Hey Freddi," Joe said as they edged into the room. He turned around to look at Harley. "This is Ann."

Harley immediately hated everything about the situation, especially that she'd wasted so much energy to get there and her Golden Goose was only half-conscious. She wanted to turn around and leave, walk straight out the front door and figure something else out. She could go back to the hotel in the Narrows, or text the Joker and have him meet her. She could figure something out with him. That had been what he'd been offering by telling her to give in, right? Hadn't it? Wasn't it?

"Hi Ann," Freddi said weakly. "You'll have to forgive me not lookin' my best."

Harley's eyes widened in surprise, not expecting this young, lumpy-looking man to have had the capacity for a personality. She saw Freddi shoot Joe a significant look and then Joe was making his excuses, saying he needed to do something in the kitchen before he scampered away, leaving Harley and Freddi alone.

She contemplated kidnapping him and taking him to the Joker. He would know how to use Freddi to get to Maroni. That could be fun.

Instead, she sat on the couch a few feet away from Freddi, her fists curling and uncurling nervously.

"So," Freddi croaked, massaging his forearm. "Joe says you're an assassin."

Harley didn't react to that. It sounded absurd to her ears, so she sat quietly, watching him rub his arm, and thinking that must have been where he shot up because her father used to rub his arm where he shot up, and this thought surprised her more than anything because she  _never_  thought about her father.

"Joe says you can help my dad and me," Freddi tried again, looking up at her with big, brown eyes that might have been described as  _soulful_  if the rest of his face didn't look so haggard.

"Maybe," Harley said, knowing she needed to say something even if her heart wasn't in it.

"My dad told me about the Belfast Guild when I was a kid," Freddi said, a smirk tugging at his tired face. "If I can get you into her penthouse... can you take care of Sofia Falcone?"

Harley bit her lip, fighting the urge to stand up and walk out. "Yes," she said at length, because burning everything to the ground was not how she operated.

After that, it got easier. Freddi wanted to talk about his father, about how he needed to save him because he loved him. It was sincere and heartfelt, but Harley stopped listening because, well... it was just incredibly  _boring_  to listen to what she already knew. She sat through it anyway, letting him talk while her mind drifted to a fantasy situation where she brought Freddi Maroni to the Joker, tied up with a big red bow. How would he respond to that? Would he laugh? The horrible laugh or that nice, raspy chuckle she liked so much? Would he be impressed with her ruthless initiative, or would he be annoyed that she had acted without his permission?

 _"Stop,"_  Harley begged, making Freddi raise his eyebrows, and she sucked in a shaky breath, berating herself for saying it out loud. She apologized and made her excuses and promised them that she would be at the house at 7 PM on Friday, ready to party, and escaped out of the front door of the townhouse feeling like she was losing her mind.

The street outside was silent and cold, and Harley stood there, breathing deeply, trying to collect her thoughts. Spending two dreamy days in the Joker's constant company had completely scrambled her priorities, and all she wanted was the certainty she'd felt before back. The confidence that she knew what she was doing and was working toward something meaningful when all he ever did was make her doubt herself. He made it impossible to know what was real and what was not; what meant something and what did not, and this was  _precisely_  why she had been worried about getting close to him. It was more evident than ever that she could  _lose herself_ to him.

Harley shoved her hands into her coat pockets and began to walk south toward Midtown. It wasn't smart for her to be out in public in this part of town, but she needed to get back to her car, and she needed to move to clear her head.

It took about forty minutes to walk all the way back to the dive bar, and the whole time Harley fought with herself over the Joker, over whether there was any reason to listen to his poisonous, tragically accurate words, or if she was allowing herself to be manipulated, and by the time she got to her car, she still hadn't come up with a decent solution. She drove back to Grin's with the window down to help drown out the mindless buzzing in her head, a buzzing that had a very Joker flavor to it.

She couldn't face Marty or anyone else for that matter, so she scaled the fire escape to her room, tripping herself on her way through the window so she landed in an ungraceful heap on the floor. She picked herself and climbed into bed, but she didn't sleep for a long time, and when she did, it was troubled and inconsistent.

* * *

Harley stayed in bed until late the next morning, eventually finding a solid middle ground of melancholic numbness that she could live with, which meant actively not thinking about the Joker. Once she found this equilibrium, Harley went for a run and trained with Ralphie, but it seemed no amount of endorphins would improve her mood. She tried meditating and yoga, but she was terrible at both of those anyway. In the end, she found herself back in bed, reading an excerpt from a book about a Russian oligarch on the Daily Planet's website.

When the club opened, Harley tracked down Roxy, who was behind the bar since Marty had Penguin-related business to deal with.

"Oh, someone left this for ya back here, Harley," Roxy said cheerfully, handing Harley a padded envelope with "HQ" written in sharpie on the front.

Harley fished around inside and discovered it contained five-thousand dollars in crisp bills—her fee for interrogating Bertinelli. She pursed her lips and handed the envelope back to Roxy.

"Hey Roxy, do you think you could do me a favor tomorrow morning?"

"Well, sure, Harley!"

So Harley gave Roxy the five grand and a short shopping list—a dress, heels, a wig, and the Russian oligarch book she'd started reading—and the next day Roxy returned with three of the four items.

"If you've gotta go to a fancy party ya can't just wear  _any_  old dress," Roxy insisted as Harley inspected the brunette wig she'd bought her.

"It doesn't need to be special," Harley protested, setting the wig aside to try on the spindly heels Roxy had procured for her. "It just needs to look good enough so that I don't stand out."

"Yeah, but these people know things like _'who are you wearing,'_  ya know?" Roxy pulled out her phone and waved Harley to sit beside her at the empty bar. "This one's nice! I think red's really your color." Roxy was pointing to a gown on Sofia Falcone's website, and Harley laughed, for what felt like the first time in days.

"That is nice," she agreed. "Can you pick it up for me?"

Harley spent the rest of that night and most of the next day reading the book she'd had Roxy buy her, the story of a Russian oligarch who had almost been successfully extradited to the US for laundering billions of dollars. He got away with it in the end, but what interested Harley was how he'd done it in the first place.

She realized this was her 'waiting' period, but she tried not to dwell on how much more enjoyable a waiting period it would be if she was locked in a room with the Joker instead of alone with her book. She tried not to dwell on him in general, with some success. It was easy enough to distract herself, but her mind would still drift to him, wondering if he was still at the hotel or Bruno's or if his waiting period had already ended and now it was time for action.

Another day passed, and Roxy presented Harley with the red Sofia Falcone gown she'd picked up from her Diamond District boutique.

"The girls in the shop were so nice! They didn't try to Pretty Woman me or nothin'!" Roxy enthused as Harley struggled into the dress. "Oh,  _Harley,_  you look  _beautiful_."

"It's okay, isn't it," Harley agreed, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in the fabric as she examined herself in the mirror. The wine-colored gown was long and slinky, with thin straps and a low neckline that dipped between her breasts.

"'Just okay," Roxy laughed at her. "God, you're so lucky you have small boobs!"

Harley finished her book that night and spent the next morning continuing her research on her phone, wishing she had a laptop or even better, access to a library to help her become an expert on money laundering. And then finally, that afternoon when she was training with Ralphie, something happened. Her phone rang.

"Hello, Oswald," Harley answered coldly, once she'd managed to shake off Ralphie.

"Harley, my  _dear._ " Penguin sounded like he was grimacing hard, and Harley could imagine his mouth wrinkling into an ugly sneer. "Thank you again, for bringing Mr O'Riley to my attention."

"Thank you? Really?" Harley smirked. "You're not mad about the Joker?"

"Oh, I am...  _furious_ ," Penguin snapped, trailing off until he had calmed himself down. "But that is for another time. I have a job for you. Tonight."

Harley licked her lips and looked around the empty boxing club, not sure how to feel about where this was going. "What kind of job?"

Penguin huffed impatiently. "Marty O'Riley is meeting Yuri Dimitrov for the first time tonight. Now that I am  _essentially_  in charge in all but name, there's very little reason to delay the reorientation of our business."

"What do you need from me, Oswald?" Harley rolled her eyes.

"I need you to go as my representative. Sit in on the meeting and report back to me," he continued, full of bluster. "Marty trusts you, and Yuri wants to meet you. They are both  _difficult_  men. The sort of men whose bravado could easily devolve into violence if a calm voice does not stop them from doing so."

Harley pursed her lips, not believing that was all there was to it. "You want me to babysit them to make sure they don't kill each other?"

Penguin made a choked sound. "And I would like you to do it as my representative. That means no  _Joker_  paint."

"Oh,  _I_  see," Harley sing-songed into the phone, a smirk lighting up her face. "You think if you can get  _me_  to work for you that somehow makes you look like you've got one over on the Joker." Penguin made another little strangled sound, but she talked over him. "No, no, it's okay. I understand. I kind of like the optics of it, actually, even if it's  _factually_ wrong." She sighed dramatically. "I charge five grand for one-hour consultations."

"Done," Penguin snapped, bitterly adding, "a pleasure doing business with you, Harley."

Not long after Penguin hung up on her, Harley received a text with a Downtown address that she was to make herself available at around midnight. That still left her with more time than she knew what to do with, but she tried to make the best of it by kicking the shit out of a punching bag and attempting to meditate, and then when that didn't work, reading every available piece of information she could find on the internet about corporate money laundering.

* * *

The Address Downtown was an old warehouse that had been turned into a nightclub. Harley parked up the street from the building number she'd been given and waited, feeling the techno music from the club thudding in her blood as she watched young people wearing glow sticks and flower crowns swarm its front entrance.

When midnight finally swung around, Harley remained in the car, watching a garage door across the street from the club. Men in leather jackets and Addidas tracksuits in lurid colors had been slowly filling in over the twenty or so minutes she'd been waiting. Then she saw Marty's Camaro pull up, and waited another ten minutes before she climbed out of her car and crossed the street.

There were two huge men in tracksuits on guard duty inside the garage.

"Who the fuck is this bitch," one of them said when he saw Harley.

"I'm Harley Quinn," she replied icily, trying to keep her temper in check. "Penguin sent me. Now get the fuck out of my way."

She wasn't sure how this would go down, telling two men who were both three times her size to move, but it seemed to do the job. They got out of her way, shooting each other nervous looks, and Harley sent a little thank you up to Vicki Vale for helping her reputation.

There were packing cates in this garage just as there had been at the Sullivans' theatre, no doubt full of more 'product.' After winding through the stacks for a full minute, Harley found the meeting she'd been sent to keep an eye on. On one side stood Marty with five of his boys, including Ralphie, and standing across from them was a sallow man with a scraggly beard and black hair tied back in a bun. He was surrounded by more men in tracksuits. This man, she assumed, was Yuri Dimitrov, the head of the Russian mafia. They appeared just to have started, all of them taking a shot of something that would no doubt turn out to be Russian vodka.

"Hey fellas," Harley greeted them, slinking out of the shadows so they could see her. She was bored already, and this was sure to be tedious, but at least it was better than staying in her room at Grin's reading her horoscope.

"Harley?" Marty sputtered, looking both shocked and unnecessarily concerned. "What the hell are ya doin' here?"

"Penguin sent me to keep an eye on all of you," she explained, keeping her hands in her coat pockets. "To make sure you don't kill each other."

"Ah, the famous Harley Quinn," Yuri took a drag off his cigarillo as he eyed Harley, a smirk playing at his mouth. "So, the Joker's girlfriend works for Penguin now? Or does he work for you?"

Harley didn't say anything to this, staring at Yuri impassively and reminding herself again to remain impassive. Her purpose was to watch and listen and hopefully learn something that would help her cause.

"Please," she said, gesturing to both Marty and Yuri. "Continue."

There was a long silence before Yuri muttered something in Russian and stomped out his cigarillo on the concrete floor.

"Look, Marty," he said, gesturing with his hands. "I want you to know I'm glad to see the backs of those Sullivan fucks. I'm tellin' you, they were lazy as all fuck. You Irishmen supposed to be hard workers, no? Let's you and I work together, eh?"

Marty grunted in agreement. "Sure, Yuri. Let's fuckin' work together."

"Great," Yuri said sarcastically. "Now, Penguin wants me to tell you how the business work. I know you not stupid, but he's the boss now so... what the fuck we goin' to do about it, eh?" He shrugged, and Harley got the impression that he really  _was_  asking what the fuck they were going to do about Penguin being their boss. "So," Yuri continued. "You know we got direct deals with the cartels. My brother negotiated them, Batman fucked it all up, and now we cool with the cartels again. They send us the coke pure, and we cut it."

He stepped back and gestured to a small table where the bottle of vodka stood, and beside it three bricks of what was obviously cocaine, each of them with a number drawn on the packaging in blue marker.

"One is the pure shit," Yuri explained, pointing to each brick. "Two is eighty percent. Three is sixty. You take it, cut it how you like, sell it how you like, I don't give a shit, just make sure you move it." He wagged a finger at Marty. "You better be sure those fuckin' Diamond District brats get the good shit, eh?"

Marty nodded shortly and folded his arms over his chest.

"Now, smack we have more problems with," Yuri continued. "What the cartels give us? Is shit," he waved his arms dramatically to make his point. "Those Chinese fucks get their shit straight from the middle east so... this is something we workin' on."

"Workin' on?" Marty repeated incredulously. "You're burnin' down their warehouses and killin' their boys."

"What the fuck else we going to do?" Yuri shrugged. "You come up with something better, you let me know."

"Fair enough," Marty muttered.

"Alright, now we test it, no?" Yuri smirked, and pulled a knife from his pocket.

Harley watched, her lip curling, as Yuri sliced open each of the three bricks of cocaine so he and Marty, and then their boys, could test all of it as if they were sampling a selection of fine wines. Soon Yuri and Marty were slapping each other on the back, laughing about how this was going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship, and Harley decided now that everyone was high and unlikely to kill each other, she would take her leave of them.

Once she was back in her car, she called Penguin and told him how the meeting had gone.

"You need to take care of this situation with the Chinese," Harley advised him. "It's going to go downhill really fast if you don't control it."

"Well, thank you for that advice, Dr Quinzel," Penguin replied snidely. "You are an expert on drug warfare after all."

"You don't have to listen to me," Harley replied evenly, not sure why she was advising him in the first place other than that she had nothing else to do. "But I guarantee you Yuri will make a mess of this once he gets an opportunity to do so." She hesitated then, knowing she had Penguin's attention. "He needs to be managed. You're in charge now. Manage him."

Penguin hung up on her.

* * *

When she got back to Grin's, Harley climbed the fire escape, pausing halfway up when she saw the light in her room was on. Her foot froze on the ladder, her guard instantly up as she tried to remember if she'd left it on—possible, not probable—and she pulled her gun from its holster, climbing the rest of the way up one-handed.

When Harley reached the landing outside her window and saw who was waiting inside, she exhaled noisily through her nose, annoyed and frustrated.

Not some random intruder. Of course. It was him.

She pushed open the window and let her arms rest on the sill, her gun hanging loose in her hand as she waited for the Joker to turn around and see the unimpressed look on her face. He was wearing a pale blue shirt with black trousers and suspenders, a heavy black overcoat tossed on the bed, his usual brown brogues kicked off in the corner like he'd made himself at home. When he turned to face her, she could see that he wasn't wearing the warpaint and looked like he'd recently showered, his hair clean and tucked behind his ears neatly. He could have belonged at a Midtown law firm dressed this way, and Harley wondered what he'd been up to.

"Oh,  _hello_ ," She greeted him flatly, holstering her gun as she climbed through the window. "Fancy seeing you here." She landed soundly on her feet as he watched her, a smug little grin tugging at his lips. But instead of that paranoid misery Harley had felt when she left him behind in the Narrows, she now felt the cloying giddiness come roaring back, which was almost certainly worse.

"I'm here for some, uh... some  _advice,_ " the Joker said conversationally, keeping his voice low as he rotated a hand in mid-air. "I've been thinkin' about this whole Harvey Dent is a hero thing and uh... it's gone on a little long, dontcha think?"

Harley shrugged out of her coat and tossed it over the dresser, considering what he was saying.

"Sure," she shrugged, leaning against the dresser with her arms folded.

"You're good at  _reading_  people...  _talking_  to people, giving them a little...  _nudge_  in the right direction," He hooked his thumbs through his suspenders. "So... how do we get Gordon to _talk_?"

Harley uncrossed her arms, feeling less defensive as she thought it over.

"Last summer, he faked his own death to keep his family safe," she said, picturing the Jim Gordon she'd met then, and how he had believed in her up until he no longer could. "He thinks of himself as an honorable man. Against corruption, even if it means lying. But he's being hit by all sides right now, and I would expect that he's feeling less inclined to prioritize Gotham over his personal life."

"Yeah..." the Joker lowered himself onto the bed and braced his hands behind him, eyeing her thoughtfully.

"Well, that's the answer. His family," Harley replied, drifting over to him, like a moth to the fucking flame.

When she stopped in front of him her fingers itched to touch him, and she knew the look on his face well enough by now to know that he  _wanted_  her to, and she  _tried_  to hold back, remembering all that neurotic misery after the last time she saw him, and how it had taken four full days of distractions to get past it. But she was only human after all, and she braced one knee on the bed beside his thigh and then the other, sliding forward into his lap as his hands landed on her legs.

"Ahhh, the  _family_." He ran his hands up her thighs to her hips, squeezing her there. "Old fashioned and reliable."

"Exactly," Harley said quietly, aware of his hands sliding under the cropped sweatshirt to spread across her bare back, but her mind began to wander, to plan, and she swatted away his hand. "Let's go," she said abruptly, standing.

He pursed his lips sourly as she stepped back from him. "Uh,  _why?_ "

Harley raised a skeptical eyebrow. She also knew him well enough to know why he was really there.

"Are you telling me you haven't already decided Gordon's family is the way to get to him, and the only reason you're here now is that some part of your plan requires... I'm guessing  _a woman?_ And that you  _weren't_  planning on doing something about it tonight?"

The Joker's eyes rolled left and then right as he sucked in a breath, knowing he'd been caught.

"Barbara Gordon picks her daughter from daycare at 2 PM on Thursdays," he said, a wicked gleam creeping into his eyes. "Say she has some uh... car trouble tomorrow, and a nice blonde lady shows up saying she's the nanny. Don't you think little Barbie Gordon would leave with her?"

Harley grinned, mostly because she'd been right and it was thrilling to know how well she knew him, but also because now the night was theirs to spend together.

She jumped back into his lap, making the bed bounce and squeak.

 _"Jeez_ , if I knew kidnapping children got you so excited I wouldda suggested it sooner," he drawled as Harley shoved his suspenders aside and started unbuttoning his shirt.

"Asshole," she accused with a grin, bowing down to kiss him.

His hands were back under her sweatshirt, sliding up her spine, and he made an intrigued sound when he didn't encounter a bra. "Given up on that particular  _instrument_  of the patriarchy, huh?" He asked against her lips.

"You cut my only one in half," she replied, pushing his shirt off his shoulders and smoothing her hands down his long, lean arms. "I don't need it anyway."

He hummed into her mouth, his palms gliding along her ribs and then up to cup her breasts, his thumbs swiping over them rhythmically. Harley sucked in a shallow breath and pulled back to tug her sweatshirt off over her head, casting it aside, and he immediately ducked down to take one of her breasts in his mouth, his thumb and forefinger slowly rolling the bud of the other into a hard peak. Harley rose up on her knees to grant him better access, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him close as she squirmed against him. Then he changed pace, flicking apart the button and zip on her jeans and attempting to squeeze his hand inside to touch her.

He was  _always_  impatient to touch her.

Harley stood quickly to unzip her boots and kick out of her jeans while he rid himself of his socks and pants. She braced her knees on either side of him again, wrapping her hand around his length and stroking him as his hand snuck between her legs, making Harley whine quietly and rock against him.

She closed her eyes and buried her face in his hair, stroking him as he touched her in turn, and she felt his breath fan out across her chest, his nose rubbing against the hollow of her throat. Then he nudged her hand away so he could take hold of himself, using a hand on her hip to guide her over him, and when he rubbed the head of his cock over her to tease her, Harley groaned right in his ear.

She half expected a smirk or a giggle from him, but instead, he pressed his face against the side of her neck, his mouth hot against her jugular as he teased her again, making them both pant and cling to each other.

That impossible sense of being close to him was back again, and an uncharacteristically positive thought flitted through Harley's mind when he finally let her sink down on him. That maybe, if he just kept his mouth shut, this could work out after all.

* * *

It had taken some time to find her, but in the end, Victor always found them.

He watched her come and go, sometimes through the club's front door, other times the fire escape to what must have been the room she was staying in. She had a strange energy about her that he couldn't put his finger on, but there was something very...  _intriguing_  about this creature.

Victor watched as the Joker scaled her fire escape, sneaking into her room like a nightmare-ish Romeo before she got home. He had not been dressed as the clown, but Victor knew the Joker whether he was in purple or not. There was no mistaking that weird, loping gate, even if he was pretending to fit in with all the rest. The Joker loathed all the rest, just like he probably loathed this creature he was entertaining. What was he planning for her?

Victor stayed at his station all night, waiting and watching as the creature returned home. He fantasized about what they might be doing up there. The Joker had never been one for...  _creativity_  with his victims. He was more interested in the crime scene, the process, the message. Torture, that was one thing. Victor would never suggest the Joker was uncreative in that medium. But once the life left the bodies of his victims he simply... lost interest.

Would he lose interest in this creature's body when he was finished with her?

Dawn came, and with it a scene that surprised Victor. The Joker and his creature climbing down the fire escape together, laughing and talking. Then, when they were both on the ground, she took his hand, and they raced across the parking lot together, like children with sneaky plans up their sleeves.

Victor did not know what to make of this  _relationship,_  so once they were gone, he climbed that fire escape, intending to find out more for himself.

Her room smelled of sex. Pungent, musky and sweet, like they'd been fucking each other from the moment she returned to the moment they left together.

Strange, Victor thought as he lowered himself down onto the bed and grabbed a handful of the rumpled sheets. He lifted them to his nose and inhaled the smell of her sweat and her sex, intentionally ignoring that he was smelling the Joker too.

He imagined her as someone who would take time to tame, not someone who would submit easily.

The Joker always liked a challenge. Perhaps she was one for him. But soon she would belong to Victor, and then she would be Victor's challenge to tame.

Victor laid down on the sheets, wrapping them around his face, breathing in her musk as he pictured her cold and unmoving in his mind's eye.

He liked a challenge too.

* * *

**A/N: Quite a fluffy chapter. That probably doesn't bode well for either of them.**

**Next week's chapter will be posted on Friday because of real life. It's a doozy of a chapter.**

**Next: Harley and the Joker drum up some mischief, and Harley finally meets Sofia Falcone.**

**Thank you to all the new people liking & following the story!**

**Don't be shy! Leave your feedback!**


	19. Chapter 19

The Harlequin

19.

* * *

Harley and the Joker left Grin's around dawn with only a couple of hours of sleep under their belts, but Harley wasn't tired; she was exhilarated.

First, they stopped at a discount store to pick up a selection of supplies—a Frozen-themed board game, pillows, some stuffed toys, a pair of barbies—to keep four-year-old Barbie Gordon happy. The Joker made a face when Harley suggested keeping her happy was the smart move, but he also listened when she promised him he would appreciate it later when the little girl wasn't screaming her head off at them.

They scouted the location the Joker chose, a unit in a building called Randolph Apartments off Robinson Park, which looked as if it had recently been a crime scene.

Just before 2 PM, Harley walked to Robinson Park Day Care, informing the woman in reception that she was Barbie Gordon's nanny. They said they would need to call Mrs Gordon to confirm, and Harley encouraged them to do so, surprised that Mrs Gordon hadn't told them she was having a day of pampering at the spa.

Unfortunately, they were unable to get ahold of either Mrs Gordon or Commissioner Gordon, and Barbie seemed more than happy to leave with the lady who promised her ice cream instead of carrot sticks for her afternoon snack. Soon enough, Harley and Barbie were walking hand in hand through Robinson Park, making small talk about Barbie's brother James's favorite show, Spongebob Squarepants.

It was only when they got back to Randolph Apartments to find the Joker waiting for them with ice cream that Barbie wavered in her unguarded enthusiasm for Harley. She saw his scarred face and immediately hid behind Harley's legs.

"What's wrong, Barbie?" Harley asked kindly, squatting down so she was eye level with the little girl.

Barbie's eyes were wide and afraid as she watched the Joker across the room. "What happened to him?" She asked, her little voice quiet.

"Well, he had an accident," Harley explained, glancing over her shoulder at the Joker who was doing an impressive job of pretending to ignore them.

"He's scary looking." Barbie bit her lip anxiously.

"Listen, Barbie, I bet your mommy tells you it doesn't matter what people look like on the outside," Harley said, firmly but kindly. "But it's what's on the inside that counts."

"That's what my daddy says." Barbie still looked unsure.

The Joker strolled over then and offered the ice cream and spoon to Barbie, one eyebrow arching curiously as she accepted it.

"Anyone ever tell ya not to take ice cream from strangers, kid?" He drawled as she dug in, then snickered when Harley shot him a withering look. "I'm  _kidding,_  jeez."

 _"Go,"_  Harley instructed him, directing Barbie toward the pillows and a laptop the Joker had acquired while she'd been out. He shrugged helplessly, looking amused, and slipped out of the apartment. He had errands to run anyway.

Harley and Barbie watched Spongebob on the laptop, Barbie squealing with laughter as the sugar from the ice cream raced to her brain. Harley was pretty sure four-year-olds took afternoon naps, but she decided to hold off in case she needed Barbie to sleep later when things got more  _interesting_.

When the little girl got bored of Spongebob, they moved on to another show and played the Frozen board game, and after a couple of hours, the Joker returned from his errands, which also included a trip to McDonald's. He settled down onto the pillows beside them, passing out Happy Meals and McFlurries, and this time Barbie accepted him with a big smile.

"Nice work," he grunted as he fed Barbie french fries, letting her eat them out of his hand like a dog.

Once Barbie was full of french fries and chicken nuggets and pliable to both of them, Harley asked her if she was interested in doing face painting.

"I got my face painted like a tiger at the circus for my birthday!" Barbie grinned proudly.

"Wow!" Harley beamed, widening her eyes. "Do you think you could paint my face like a clown?"

"Sure!" Barbie giggled. "But you have to do mine too! And you need to have your face painted too, Mr J!"

"Oh, I gotta  _special_  way of doin'  _my_  face paint _,"_  the Joker grinned wickedly. "But you two gals have  _fun,_ and I'll get it all on camera, huh?"

* * *

Gordon had been watching his wife cry for hours. First at home, now at the station.  _Hours._

Hours since Robinson Park Day Care allowed a blonde woman claiming to be the Gordon family's nanny to pick up their daughter Barbie.

"Not again," Barbara sobbed into her husband's shirt after he dropped off their son with a neighbor. "I can't do it again."

When Gordon showed the staff at the daycare Harleen Quinzel's Arkham ID photo, they squinted at it for a few minutes.

"That might be her?" One of the women frowned. "She looked younger and smiled a lot more."

She  _smiled_  a lot more.

Harleen Quinzel—or Harley Quinn, or  _whoever_  she was—had taken Gordon's daughter, and that meant the Joker was involved too.

Ever since the MCU had been forced to admit she was wanted for murder, Harley Quinn had been laying low. There had been one sighting of her in the Narrows almost a week earlier, but that was shaky at best.

Gordon could only assume the Joker had hidden her somewhere. For what purpose, he also didn't know, but it wasn't as if she could flip from being an upstanding member of society one day to a criminal mastermind the next.

As far as what the  _relationship_  between the two of them was, Gordon was utterly in the dark. The papers were pushing their romantic theory that she'd fallen in love with the Joker at Arkham, but Gordon found that explanation hard to swallow. Harleen Quinzel had written that the Joker couldn't form emotional attachments and completely lacked empathy. She  _hadn't_  been the one to help him escape. For what purpose could he possibly manipulate her into falling in love with him?

Would there be some big, dramatic pay off to corrupting her that Gotham would never see coming?

This raised another problem. The Batman had not been seen in almost ten days. Since he had reemerged, his presence had been like a reassuring hum for Gordon, the tipline ringing at least nightly with sightings. But for ten nights now, it had been silent, and the Batman had made no further attempts to contact Gordon. If the Joker was planning something big, Gotham would need the Batman. And now that Gordon's daughter had been taken, Gordon needed him more than ever.

Stephens burst into Gordon's office then. "Jim! GCN just called. The Joker sent them a tape, and they're about to play it. He's got her."

Barbara was out the door and down the hall before Gordon had even gotten to his feet. Out in the bullpen, beat cops and detectives stood around slack-jawed as they watched Mike Engel explain the footage about to be played was disturbing, but GCN feared not sharing it would be against the public's best interests. Mike Engel didn't look the least bit convinced by the words coming out of his mouth.

The screen transitioned to a shaky shot of a hard-wood floor as the cameraman wrestled with the zoom function, and in the background, there was a childish giggle that made Gordon's wife swoon. That was their daughter's happy little laugh.

The camera swung up, settling on Harley Quinn sitting with her legs crossed on the floor of an unfurnished apartment. Sunlight streamed in from a nearby window, making her blonde hair glow angelically around her shoulders, contrasting with the rings of black greasepaint circling her eyes. Sitting in front of her was Gordon's daughter Barbie, the back of her curly blonde head to the camera. They were giggling and talking together, and then Barbie reached up and used two chubby fingers to paint a big red smile on Harley Quinn's mouth, one that stretched from one white cheek to the other.

"You look crazy," Barbie giggled, and Harley pulled a funny face that made the little girl squeal with laughter.

The cameraman moved closer, right up to Barbie's shoulder, and Harley Quinn looked down the lens.

"Now, now, Barbie, it isn't nice to call people  _crazy_ ," she smirked.

"But it's true!" Barbie continued to giggle helplessly.

 _"Maybe_ ," Harley quirked her eyebrows knowingly at the camera. "Everybody's got a little crazy in them. Even people you wouldn't expect."

"Like who?" Barbie kept giggling.

"What about your dad?" Harley turned her attention back to Barbie, smiling sweetly as she ruffled the little girl's hair. "Does he ever do anything crazy?"

"Not really," Barbie said thoughtfully. "He's pretty boring."

"Oh, no one likes boring!" Harley grinned slyly, her eyes shifting back to the camera. "I bet your daddy says you should always tell the truth."

Gordon could feel himself trembling, seeing that woman so close to his daughter, but now a new kind of dread began to unspool inside him as he came to understand the purpose of this video. This was about Harvey.

"Yes! Always tell the truth," Barbie insisted, and when the camera finally shifted so her face was in the shot, the MCU erupted into gasps.

Barbie's face had been painted like the Joker's, and the effect was chilling. A few slicks of paint was all it took to twist her sweet little face into something demonic. "Always tell the truth even if it's going to get you in trouble," she beamed proudly. "That's what my daddy says."

Gordon smoothed a hand over his mouth, feeling sick as he watched his daughter give Harley Quinn her biggest, toothiest smile, and he couldn't decide if this was more terrifying than any of the other horrors they'd experienced at the hand of the Joker so far.

This was different. This was  _subtle._  The Joker didn't do subtle. In fact, Gordon would have claimed he wasn't  _capable_  of it.

But this... Taunting Gordon, tempting him to action rather than outright forcing it.

 _This_  was Harley Quinn, Gordon realized.

The camera rattled as it turned around, the Joker's mangled face suddenly taking up the entire shot as he licked his lips and stared down the lens.

"From the mouth of  _babes,"_  he purred, his mouth curling up cruelly on one side. His eyes lifted, catching something across the room and the cruel grin intensified, and then when he looked back at the camera, he hissed, "I'm a man of my  _word_."

Then the screen cut to static.

* * *

Bruce could hear the steady  _beep... beep... beep..._  before his vision returned to him. It was bright and hazy like he was trapped in a fluffy white cloud, but as the haze began to clear, the whiteness remained, gradually forming into ceiling tiles flecked with gray. He licked his lips and took stock of his body, which felt heavy and numb, and he knew he was drugged as he looked right and left for signs of danger.

It was a hospital room, the familiar faces of Alfred and Lucius hovering nearby.

"He's awake," Alfred croaked, rising from his chair. Bruce wanted to tell him not to get up, but his throat was dry and scratchy, and all he could manage was a hoarse request for water, which Alfred immediately obliged.

"You had us worried, Mr Wayne," Lucius said, his ordinarily steadfast voice sounding tight. "And you have impeccable timing."

" _Mr Fox,"_  Alfred snapped, helping Bruce drink from the water cup. "Would you be so kind as to retrieve Dr Elliot for us."

"What happened?" Bruce asked as Lucius slipped silently from the room.

"The Joker," Alfred's mouth puckered as he struggled to move past his feelings. "I don't know what happened precisely, but I found you outside in the snow with a fractured skull, a dislocated jaw, and a busted knee cap. You've been unconscious for ten days."

Bruce inhaled sharply, the oxygen flowing through the tube in his nose harsh but welcome. "It wasn't the Joker," he rasped. "It was Harleen Quinzel."

"Harley Quinn did this to you?" Alfred bristled, his anger palatable. "She did this, did she?"

"Yes," Bruce closed his eyes, breathing deeply again. "Where are we?"

"A private room at Gotham City," Alfred said tightly, just as the door to the room opened again, and Lucius stepped back in with a doctor in tow.

"How are you feeling, Bruce?" The doctor moved into Bruce's line of sight. He was tall and stocky, his red hair slicked back, his green eyes sunken with dark circles beneath, a tan line on his left ring finger where a wedding ring no longer resided.

"Tommy," Bruce whispered, a fissure of surprise racing through him at the sight of his childhood friend. "What are you doing here?"

"Discretely treating you," Alfred butted in, meeting Bruce's eye but not answering his silent question of whether Thomas Elliot knew their secret.

"Mr Wayne," Lucius said carefully, eyeing Alfred. "There's something you should see."

"Now is not the time, Lucius," Alfred snapped bitterly, and Tommy discretely made his excuses and left the room.

"What is it?" Bruce cleared his throat, knowing if Lucius Fox was pushing, it couldn't be good.

"The Joker has kidnaped Commissioner Gordon's daughter," Lucius said despite Alfred's blustering. "There's a video. I've been listening to the police scanners, and they haven't got a clue what to make of it. Maybe you could have a look, and see if there's anything that stands out..."

Bruce nodded immediately. "Let me see."

Lucius edged past Alfred, ignoring the lethal look the older man shot him as he set an iPad in front of Bruce and tapped the screen.

Bruce watched the video three times before he spotted something that he recognized.

"Randolph Apartments," he croaked, when the camera panned over a brick wall missing a section Bruce himself had removed only three months earlier in his hunt for the Joker. "Off Robinson Park. Tell Gordon it's the place we found the cadets."

* * *

After their broadcast ran during the ten o'clock news, the Joker waited at the window, rocking from one foot to the other, radiating impatience. Harley knew he was waiting for the Batman. She had slowly come to realize that this play to get Gordon to talk was at least partially about drawing the Batman out when he'd been silent for over a week.

Over a week since the night Harley nearly bludgeoned him to death with an assault rifle.

The later it got, the more aware Harley became that it could take  _days_  to make Gordon spill. They would need to hold onto Barbie Gordon, maybe make a few more home movies and do God only knew what else before Gordon would cave.

Harley didn't have days. She had to be at Sofia Falcone's penthouse in less than twenty-four hours.

But then police sirens started screaming in the distance, growing louder, and Lonnie called to inform them the police scanner was saying the cops knew where they were. The Joker grinned, looking pleased with himself, and told Harley that even if he didn't show, the Batman was the only one who could have worked out where they were. This, it seemed, was enough for him to consider the night a success. They scraped off their face paint, left Barbie swaddled in Harley's coat and sleeping on the floor, and escaped down the fire escape as a SWAT team flooded the building from the street below.

Harley didn't know what it meant that the Joker was abandoning his ploy to get the truth about Dent revealed to the masses. Had he mislead her from the beginning, and it had always been about the Batman? Or had he grown bored with the prospect of dealing with Barbie for an extended period and changed his mind? Or was this a step in a bigger plan that Harley couldn't see the full picture of yet? She didn't ask, because she was sure she wouldn't get an answer, and the fact that he was still delegating information to her was too depressing to face outright. And besides that, Harley couldn't find it in herself to _care_  because spending the whole day colluding and collaborating with him had been so  _fun_  that it didn't particularly matter  _what_  their real purpose was.

They stole a lime green Volkswagon Golf—a clown car, basically—and after a car chase in which Harley found herself hanging out of the sunroof, shooting at police cruisers, they disappeared into Robinson Park, ditching the car near the carousel. From there, the Joker led her to a small bridge crossing a creek. They jumped down the bank and waded until they were under the bridge, then he dropped to his knees to pry off an iron grate covering the underside.

Once the grate came loose, the Joker slipped through the narrow space, disappearing into the darkness below with Harley following close behind him.

She landed with a splash that smelled of shit and decay and threw her arm up to cover her nose and mouth, feeling like she might dry heave as the Joker took her hand and pulled her along after him, seemingly unphased that they were wading through human waste and who knew what else.

The sound of sirens began to fade, and eventually Harley removed her arm from her face, the smell becoming less overwhelming the longer she was submerged in it. They sloshed onward through the darkness, the Joker's crushing grip the only thing to guide her with the occasional slip of moonlight breaking up a blackness.

After a half an hour of wading through shit and listening to all manner of vermin skitter around them, they finally came to an open space lit by dark orange floodlights and climbed up onto a concrete platform that appeared to be part of a maintenance tunnel.

"Where are we?" Harley asked as she pulled herself out of the sewage pipe to stand beside the Joker.

"Midtown," he announced gruffly, watching her brush herself off.

They set off down the maintenance tunnel, and as the adrenaline began to recede from her body, Harley started to feel tired, the heady excitement of the day leaking out of her. In its place, she began to worry about all that she needed to do to prepare for Sofia Falcone's party, and that in turn made her feel guilty. She was plotting behind the Joker's back while he was walking beside her, holding her hand. She shouldn't have cared. She had no doubt he wouldn't feel guilty about planning something shitty for her while holding her hand. But knowing that did nothing to assuage her guilt.

After another hour of walking in silence, both of them wrapped up in their thoughts, they came to a section of the tunnel that had been blown open, leading into Gotham's abandoned original subway system. Soon after they arrived at an old station, a wooden sign embedded in crumbling green tiles declaring it Burnley Arms.

"Jesus, how did you know this was here?" Harley murmured once she was on the old train platform.

"Used to have a  _pal_  who lived down here," the Joker drawled, looking around the abandoned station as he tongued his bottom lip thoughtfully. "Creepy guy."

Harley looked up at the station sign again and pursed her lips. Burnley was northeast, but not quite as far east as the Cauldron. She checked her phone, and when she saw how late it was getting, she started to worry all over again, trying to figure out how she could get away without it being suspicious.

The Joker elbowed away some rotting plywood blocking off the station entrance, allowing them out into the street where they were finally able to breathe fresh air. Burnley, like most of the Eastside, was a cesspit for poverty and drugs where they wouldn't have to worry about being caught on the street. Anyone roaming the streets at three o'clock in the morning would know to turn in the opposite direction if they recognized the Joker, not that he was easy to identify out of his suit and warpaint.

He led Harley down a string of alleyways, not volunteering to tell her where they were going, and the longer they kept walking, the antsier Harley got about getting back to Grin's.

She knew he wouldn't be happy about what she had planned, and she did not intend to let him find out anytime soon. Hell, things could play out a thousand different ways, but some of those ways put her on opposite sides of a conflict with him. She wouldn't let that stop her, but the fact that she was potentially planning to betray him made her anxious to get away from him, so anxious that she did the worst thing she possibly could have done.

Harley stopped walking abruptly, squeezing her arms tight around herself to ward off the late November chill since she'd left her coat with Barbie Gordon. The Joker stopped too, slowly turning his head to peer at her over his shoulder.

"Uh..." Was all he said.

" _Uh_ , where the fuck are we going?" Harley snapped.

His eyes widened, looking  _very_  amused as he swung around to face her fully, crossing his arms over his chest to mimic her.

" _Someone's_  panties are in a bunch," he observed happily, fighting back a grin. "What's the matter... dontcha trust me?"

The Joker's words had the unfortunate effect of making Harley feel deeply,  _deeply_  guilty. She bit her lip, struggling to keep her expression blank.

His arms fell to his sides as he moved forward, closing some of the distance between them and eyeing her curiously.

"I gotta little ah...  _pied a terre_  nearby," he drawled evasively, lifting one eyebrow. "You interested?"

"A pied a terre?" Harley reluctantly cracked a small smile, finding him charming despite her better instincts, and cautiously accepted his hand when he offered it.

About fifteen minutes later, they were standing in front of a large public housing block that looked ready for demolition aside from the laundry hanging out the windows and trash piling up in the dumpster out front. They weaved through a series of graffiti-strewn brick passages on the ground floor, managing not to come across any of the other residents as they slipped into a small unit that still had police tape covering the entrance. The Joker wiggled a loose brick beside the front door free, revealing a small gold key that let them inside.

The apartment was almost as cold as it was outside, but more alarming was the smell. Harley was now intimately familiar with the sickly, cloying smell of decomposing bodies since finding one in her bathroom, although the stink in this apartment was much fainter, and covered in bleach as if the whole place had been meticulously scrubbed. She looked up at the Joker, wondering if this was his work.

He was shrugging out of his jacket in the narrow entryway, looking around for somewhere to throw it as he toed off his shoes, which looked like they were on their last legs after their trip through the sewers. Harley turned away from him and wandered into a kitchenette off the main hallway, searching for a towel or some soap to clean herself up with. But the kitchen was completely bare, not even a bottle of booze waiting for them in the cupboard like the Chinatown apartment.

"This place is grim," Harley muttered, looking around the small living room separated from the kitchen by a counter with peeling linoleum. It was completely absent of furniture, just as the kitchen was missing all its appliances, and Harley wondered if the apartment had been looted before or after a body was left there to decompose.

She followed the Joker into a small bedroom across the hall from the kitchen. It contained a sofa bed, the bed already assembled, a rumpled sheet and a quilt knotted up at one side of the stained mattress. The Joker dropped down on the edge of the bed and peeled off his sodden socks, tossing them aside as Harley watched coyly from the doorway, observing that he looked like he was settling in even though neither of them was injured and there was no Batman or Gordon on their tail.

"Could you steal me a car?" Harley asked hesitantly, her eyes drawn to the Joker's throat as he undid the first few buttons of his blue shirt. "I need to get back to Grin's..."

He pursed his lips and leaned back on his hands, eyeing her suspiciously. "And what's got  _you_  runnin' off so quick,  _hmm_?"

If only that suspicion hadn't been warranted, Harley would have pushed back. Instead, she shrugged as if it wasn't that important anyway and leaned against the wall to remove her sewer-ravaged boots.

"Don't  _you_  have somewhere you need to be?" She pointed out, straightening back up. "Or are you playing the waiting game..."

The Joker narrowed his eyes at her, more curious than suspicious now. Harley felt like they had come to a strange impasse, both of them hiding something from the other, both knowing the other was doing exactly the same. She folded her arms over her chest, unsure where to go from there.

"I gotta few hours," he said at length, slowly rising to his feet before he took a few swaying steps toward her.

Harley didn't say anything as he loomed over her. She kept her arms folded and looked up at him, hyper-aware of her heartbeat steadily growing louder in her ears.

"Do you have something you want to  _say_?" He sing-songed, raising one patronizing eyebrow.

"Do _you_  have something you want to say?" Harley retorted, her arms tightening over her chest as she pressed herself back against the wall

They Joker ducked down so he was eye level with her, one of his hands rising to rest against the wall beside her head as he leaned in close, his face only inches from hers. He cocked his head to the side, his gaze lingering on her mouth before drifting up to her eyes.

He hummed thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing as they searched her face. " _What_  is goin' on in that big,  _weird_  brain..." he purred.

Harley blinked hard, confused by what he meant but sensing it had something to do with the way he found her choices so entertaining. Then he exhaled shortly through his nose, his eyes closing as he leaned in to kiss her.

Harley's eyes slid shut too, his warm lips on her cold ones warming her up in more ways than one. When his hand shifted from the wall to the side of her neck, she let her arms drop out of their defensive position over her chest, and when his tongue slid against hers, her fingers threaded into his hair, pulling him closer. They swayed away from the wall, his hands circling her waist and sliding up her spine as the backs of his knees connected with the side of the sofa bed. Harley urged him back, and they fell on the bed together, their legs tangling as she stretched out on top of him.

She pulled his hair lightly as they exchanged long, lazy kisses, and the Joker slipped one hand under the back of her shirt, his fingers trailing over her skin, making her sigh. Then he flipped them over abruptly, and Harley sucked in a startled breath when she landed with him on top of her, the thin mattress squeaking reluctantly around them. He braced himself on his elbow and yanked her shirt free from her jeans, then let his hand splay out flat across her stomach, his eyes drifting over her, his expression unreadable.

Harley frowned up at him as his hand shifted to curl around her side just below her ribs where her waist dipped in above her hip. She didn't understand what was happening, his expression so closed off that she was left entirely in the dark as he squeezed her waist experimentally. Then he hummed low in his throat, sounding unhappy or disappointed as he watched his hand flex and release on her side as if he was mesmerized by her body moving under his palm.

The Joker sucked in a breath through his nose, his expression souring as he lifted his eyes to hers.

"You... make me feel like a _fucking_  caveman," he finally said, his voice low and raspy. He lifted one eyebrow at her like he was accusing her of something terrible. "Did you know that? Huh?"

Harley's eyes widened at this... _admission_ , which was so unexpectedly candid and delivered so bitterly. Like she was forcing him to do something he didn't want to do, or maybe feel.

She could understand that perfectly.

Harley lifted her hand to his forehead and smoothed back a greasy flop of hair, watching his jaw twitch as he continued to sulk, then she pushed on his shoulder, nudging him onto his back. She hooked her leg over his hip and rolled on top of him, straightening up, so she was sitting on his stomach and looking down at him, trying to understand him. He ran his tongue over his teeth, still looking pissed off as Harley picked up his hands off the bed and placed them on her waist where he's been touching her a moment earlier. His head tipped back as he hummed unhappily and squeezed her again, so hard that it almost hurt this time.

Harley folded forward to undo a few more buttons on his shirt so she could slip both her hands inside to touch his chest. She pressed her face against his neck, nuzzling his jaw with her nose, and she felt him swallow as his hands flexed on her sides.

Then she understood. She understood what was bothering him.

Harley had managed to get under the Joker's skin, and he didn't like it.

She should have used it against him. Used his attraction to her advantage, and the idea of controlling him that way was almost intoxicating, even if Harley didn't honestly believe it was feasible. He was above such things. This attraction may have been a nuisance to him, but it wasn't enough to take him down.

But she didn't like seeing him unhappy like this. She found it genuinely upsetting, even if he would never have granted her that same courtesy.

Harley ran her nails over his chest as she moved her mouth up to his ear, taking a moment to enjoy the way he twitched under her hands.

"You always make me feel so good," she told him, her voice low as her lips grazed his earlobe. "But right now... you kinda smell like shit, J."

She felt his chest vibrate with quiet laughter against hers, and Harley pulled back to smirk down at him. His face had morphed completely, the sullen look replaced with a crooked grin as he chuckled up at her, his dark eyes glittering with something between affection and mischief.

"Uh huh," he lifted an amused eyebrow. "You're not so fresh yourself."

Harley shrugged, rolling her eyes up girlishly before she folded forward again.

"Bet I taste pretty good though," she smirked as one of his hands slid into her hair, pulling her head down so he could kiss her again.

They rolled around making out on the sofa bed, both of them tired and smelling of sewage, and not in a rush to do anything more. Harley didn't even know how long he'd been awake for, but she knew neither of them got much sleep the night before in her room. When her lips were almost painfully swollen from kissing him, she laid her head on his chest and closed her eyes, wishing she could figure out how to have what she wanted without losing herself. Because in these moments, with his hand ghosting over her hair and his black heart beating away under her cheek, Harley thought she might have an idea what it was she really wanted.

But eventually it would be a new day, and she would be out in the world again, unable to see how she could feasibly keep him.

* * *

When the sun came up, they stole a rusted out beater that didn't look like it had an owner who would miss it, and the Joker dropped Harley off at Grin's, saying he had 'errands to run,' which was good enough for her. He parked in the gravel lot beside the club and watched her undo her seat belt, and Harley tried to picture a world where she'd lean over and give him a goodbye peck on lips, but the thought only made her smile and shake her head as she pushed the car door open. When she looked back at him, he winked rakishly at her, a smirk tugging one corner of his mouth, and Harley's smile grew with a flare of that awful giddiness as she pushed the car door shut.

She climbed the fire escape to her room and got cleaned up, the smell of the sewer still clinging to her skin. After a shower, she gathered up her sheets and the laundry piling up on the floor and stuffed it all in a duffle bag. Laundry seemed tragically banal after the events of the previous twenty-four hours, but it was necessary, so Harley spent the remainder of the morning at a run-down laundromat around the corner, waiting for her sheets and clothes to tumble dry while she read the Gothamite's cover story about corruption in Ukraine's financial sector.

Roxy arrived before the club opened with a tool-box sized kit of makeup to help Harley get ready for Sofia Falcone's party. They sat cross-legged across from each other on Harley's bed, a happy pop song about shaking off the haters playing out of Roxy's phone as she did Harley's nails and fed her gossip about what had been happening at the club since she stopped dancing and started bartending.

Harley sat very still, only half listening as Roxy painted her nails a dark maroon that was almost black. Her mind was on the night to come.

"Jesus, Harley, ya look like you're goin' to a funeral instead of a party!" Roxy laughed, blowing on Harley's nails before turning back to the makeup box. "Maybe we should get ya a little cocktail, huh?"

"No, I'm okay," Harley protested. "I need to be clear-headed."

"This is really stressin' ya out, isn't it?" Roxy made a sympathetic face. "Come on... ya gotta seem like yer havin' a good time, or the jig will be up!"

Harley narrowed her eyes at Roxy, wondering what she really thought was going on. It seemed like she didn't necessarily care and was just happy to be involved. Maybe excited to be trusted because she liked Harley and thought of her as her friend. Maybe Roxy could be Harley's answer to Bruno— someone who trusted her implicitly and didn't ask questions. Harley watched as Roxy fished through the makeup box and sang along to the song playing from her phone, and wondered how far Roxy would go to protect her if Harley asked.

"I feel like I'm helpin' ya get ready for prom," Roxy giggled, wielding a fluffy brush that she'd dusted through some iridescent powder.

"I never went to prom," Harley admitted, trying to relax as Roxy began sweeping the brush over her face in practiced movements.

"Me neither," Roxy sighed. "But I never made it to high school in the first place. Why didn't ya go, Harley?"

Harley sighed and closed her eyes as a second, and then a third powder were layered over her cheeks and brow. "I was more interested in studying."

"Yer a real bookworm huh?" Roxy grinned.

"Knowledge is power," Harley smirked, thinking about what she'd been reading lately. "You have to be one step ahead of everyone else."

When Roxy finished, Harley looked at herself in the mirror and nearly did a double-take. Her eyebrows had been colored in with a dark pencil, and her eyes were lined with a dusky pink shadow, her lips stained a deep maroon that matched her nails. It was almost as effective as hiding her identity behind warpaint, at the opposite end of the color spectrum.

"Thank you," she grinned gratefully at Roxy.

"No worries, Harley!" She beamed back.

Harley slipped on the Sofia Falcone gown and the stilt-like heels Roxy had procured for her, then hid her hair beneath a brunette wig with heavy bangs, and by the time she was bundled up in a long black coat she looked nothing like Dr Quinzel or Harley Quinn.

Roxy drove her Uptown in the powder-blue Mercedes, pop songs playing on the radio as Roxy told her about growing up poor on Gotham's Eastside. Harley could sympathize with most of what she told her, knowing she had been substantially luckier than Roxy in a few significant ways.

When they stopped out front of Freddi Maroni's townhouse, Harley turned to Roxy, fixing her with a frown.

"Do you want more than what you have right now?" She asked her seriously. "More than Grin's. More than what the men controlling this city have?"

"Whaddya talkin' about?" Roxy laughed. "I gotta good job with Marty and he treats me right."

"But don't you want more?" Harley pushed. "You could be in charge. You know that, right?"

"I'm not exactly the type to be the brains behind the operation," Roxy grinned. "Go on, Harley, have a good night! You need help gettin' back?"

Harley sighed through her nose and shook her head, then did something very unlike herself. She leaned over the gear shift and wrapped her arms around Roxy in an awkward hug which was returned enthusiastically.

"Ah, look at ya! Gettin' all emotional," Roxy laughed, rubbing Harley's back. "Go have fun and tell me all about it tomorrow, kay?"

"Alright," Harley agreed, feeling embarrassed as she pulled back and climbed out of the car, making sure to give Roxy a little wave before she turned to face Freddi Maroni's townhouse. She took a deep breath and began to climb the steps.

* * *

The elevator ride up to Sofia Falcone's penthouse was tense. Harley could feel the anxiety rolling off of Freddi, but she wasn't sure if it was because this was his first social gathering in a very long time or if it was because he was sneaking a person he thought was an assassin into someone's home to kill them.

Maybe it was both.

The car ride over had been tense too, Joe driving while Harley and Freddi got their stories straight in the back. But now that she was in a private elevator shooting up fifty floors toward Sofia Falcone's penthouse, Harley didn't have time to worry about Freddi's nerves. When those elevator doors opened, she would have to deceive, and she would have to manipulate, and she would have decisions to make. She was largely walking blindly into a situation she knew very little about, but there was something dangerously  _thrilling_  about believing in herself enough to know she would walk out of there alive with whatever she wanted.

Harley had always believed in herself, but never like this before.

She could have self-diagnosed it as narcissism, but she decided to lean into it instead.

The elevator dinged and they arrived in a reception room with fluffy white carpet and two muscley men in suits flanking a pair of imposing double doors framed with fairy lights.

"Your invitation, sir," one of the men requested, holding out a white-gloved hand.

Harley kept her composure as they passed into a penthouse that could only be described as palatial. A flute of champagne was deposited in her hand, and her coat taken, but Harley was hardly paying attention. Her eyes were sweeping the crowd, taking note of familiar and new faces as she looped her hand around Freddi's elbow and led him further into the room.

"So, uh," Freddi muttered to her out of the corner of his mouth. "What's the plan?"

"Do you know any of these people?" Harley asked, trying not to roll her eyes at his lack of subtlety. "Let's mingle."

"Mingle?" Freddi repeated, bewildered. "I haven't really mingled with these people in a while. I uh... oh,  _shit_."

"Freddi? Buddy! You never come to these things!" Bobby Kane approached them, a champagne flute in each hand and a grin on his face. They hugged and slapped each other on the back, Freddi looking uncomfortable and Bobby looking drunk. He'd grown a beard since Harley saw him at the last Arkham board meeting, and he was now wearing his longish hair up in a man bun. The trust fund version of rebellion, she supposed.

"Who is  _this_  lovely lady," Bobby grinned, downing one of his glasses of champagne so he could free up a hand to shake Harley's.

"My girlfriend, Ann," Freddi said stiffly.

They endured a half an hour of Bobby lamenting that his girlfriend Ivania hadn't come back from Switzerland and how most of his friends had left the city to avoid getting caught up in the Joker's plans. Harley and Freddi mostly listened, Freddi chiming in where necessary while Harley continued to scan the room.

Eventually, a plump middle-aged woman with a blonde bob and baggy eyes appeared behind Bobby's shoulder, a smug smirk pulling at her red lips, and Harley felt Freddi tense up beside her.

"Mrs Viti!" Bobby exclaimed, his face splitting into a massive grin. "Is Lucia here? Shit, I haven't seen her since the wrap party last year."

"Keep it in ya pants, Bobby," the blonde drawled disdainfully in a thick Chicago accent. "My daughter has business to attend to back home." Her puffy eyes swept briefly over Harley before they landed on Freddi and narrowed. "Freddi Maroni. I didn't expect to see yous here," she said gruffly.

"I'm here to donate to Mrs Porter's campaign," Freddi said evasively, repeating the line Harley had fed him in the car ride over. "I don't trust this Dent Act at all."

"I don't suppose ya daddy doesn't neither," the blonde smirked nastily. "Shame he couldn't be here tonight. I hear he's... tied up."

"My father has business to attend to as well," Freddi said, his face souring, a sliver of personality jumping through the lumpy drug addict exterior.

"Sure, sure," the blonde chuckled drily. "That'll be why Sal sent Pino and Umberto to Chicago but not yous, eh? Cause he's keepin' you busy with the business here in Gotham? Heh, heh, heh."

Freddi's expression took on a strained quality having his bastard-status so flagrantly rubbed in his face, and that seemed to be enough of a reaction for the blonde to make a sarcastic excuse and waddle away.

"Who the hell was that?" Harley demanded once she was out of earshot, feeling a swell of protectiveness for Freddi.

"Carla Viti," Bobby filled in, grabbing a fresh glass of champagne off a passing waiter. "She's a total bitch just like her daughter Lucia," he sighed dreamily.

Harley shot Bobby a withering look before turning her attention back to Freddi, who was still looking a little grey in the face after being insulted. "And who is Lucia?"

"Sofia Falcone's cousin," Freddi mumbled unhappily. "Carla Viti is Carmine Falcone's sister."

Harley's eyes widened, and she looked around for the blonde again, finding her smirking and chuckling with a group of men in suits who were laughing sycophantically at her jokes. Carmine Falcone's sister from Chicago. Did that make her a mobster too? Did she have designs on Gotham, or was she just there for the free champagne?

"Is she..." Harley glanced at Freddi, trying to find the most subtle way to ask with Bobby hovering beside them. "In the same business as your dad?"

But Freddi just shrugged dispassionately, and Harley's protective instincts quickly morphed into frustration over his being so sensitive.

More of Bobby and Freddi's prep school friends appeared around them, a handful of them guest stars from  _Made in the Diamond District_ , all of them boorish and annoying. They ignored Harley, which was fine with her, and she used the opportunity to continue looking around for familiar faces. She spotted Bertrum Crowne at the far end of the room with his wife Lulu. They were speaking to Janice Porter, the DA candidate who would reap the rewards of this fundraiser in her campaign to be Gotham's DA.

"Who is Janice Porter, anyway," Harley asked aloud, interrupting one of Bobby Kane's friend's story about a polo match he won. She received annoyed looks but ignored them, tugging on Freddi's arm until he reluctantly followed her away from his friends and onto a small dance floor. There was a pianist accompanied by a saxophonist playing gentle a tune, and a handful of couples swaying and smiling together, including Sofia Falcone and her fat husband, Vito Gigante.

Harley pulled Freddi into the swaying crowd, forcing one of his hands onto the small of her back when he didn't move to touch her. She shuffled them around in a square pattern, leading since Freddi didn't seem capable of it.

"Why do you think these people want Janice Porter to be the DA?" She asked Freddi, keeping her eyes on Sofia Falcone's back. Her dress was cerulean blue satin, its open back showing off an expanse of tan skin and sharp vertebrae. She wore her long dark hair in a sleek ponytail, her wrists and ears adorned with gold trinkets.

"I dunno," Freddi shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "I'm not exactly one of these people."

"Yes you are," Harley said flatly, remembering how Bruce Wayne had felt the same way. "You may not feel like one of them, but you were raised to be one of them. That means you understand how they think, even if you don't agree with them. So tell me. What's important to these people?"

Freddi made a face. "Money," he shrugged again, looking lost. "Power, fame, their reputations."

"So how does the DA of their choosing help these supposedly upstanding citizens get those things," Harley cajoled.

"Maybe she's promised them something," Freddi looked like he was concentrating hard now. "Or promised a few of them something. The rest just pile on the bandwagon, especially with someone like Sofia Falcone leading the charge."

"So maybe something illegal?" Harley lifted an eyebrow. "Maybe something  _corrupt?"_

Freddi shrugged helplessly.

"Freddi?"

Sofia Falcone and her fat husband had turned around to face them, a complacent smirk that almost perfectly mirrored her aunt Carla's tugging at Sofia's red lips. Apart from that smirk, they couldn't have looked more different. Sofia was tall and fashionably thin, not traditionally beautiful but exuding style and poise, and radiating regal disdain that spoke louder than any verbal insult could.

"Freddi Maroni," she purred, still swaying with her husband. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Mrs Gigante," Freddi bobbed his head nervously. "Thank you for inviting me."

"Of course," she hummed, her hooded eyes drifting to Harley and lingering on her face before shifting down to her dress. "Your friend has exquisite taste."

"Thank you, Mrs Gigante," Harley bobbed her head, following Freddi's lead and playing nervous.

Sofia's eyes narrowed a fraction. "Do I know you, dear?"

"I don't believe we've met before," Harley replied slyly, shedding the nervous platitudes. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you," she added.

"And you as well, Ms...?" Sofia lifted a wary eyebrow.

"Smiley," Harley said, a complacent smile spreading across her lips. "Ann Smiley."

That's when she saw the flash of recognition in Sofia Falcone's hooded eyes, her bony shoulders tensing as she realized that Harley wasn't who she said she was.

"Sofie!" Bertrum and Lulu Crowne squeezed their way in between the two couples, their hands and shoulders jerking along to a more upbeat tune. "You owe me a dance," Crowne announced, wagging a cheerful finger at Sofia. "I've got a new place on Wall Street you may be interested in."

"Bertie," Sofia greeted him with a cold smile, handing her fat husband over to Lulu and allowing Bertie to take her hand. She shot Harley a lingering stare before turning her attention to Crowne, who was chattering happily as they moved out of earshot.

Frustrated, Harley settled for twitching her shoulders dispassionately along to the music while she tried to read their lips. It wasn't very effective, but she could see from the looks on their faces that Crowne was enthusiastically pitching Sofia an idea—more than likely a new money-laundering scheme—that she was at least was feigning interest in.

Harley thought back to Bernelli's last words. That  _Bertie_  might know where Maroni was.

Then her eyes widened, the puzzle pieces starting to come together as she watched Crowne and Sofia Falcone negotiate across the dance floor.

Harley had already learned that Bertie Crowne was laundering the mob's money, and from what she'd recently read, she suspected he was doing it through his buildings, something that was especially common in properties that needed investment.

Harley had lived in Crowne Tower for over a year—she knew first hand that less than half of the building's units were lived in.

Yet the penthouse sold just before the Joker's escape, as Crowne had jubilantly announced at his gala.

Bertie Crowne knew where Maroni was.

Because Maroni was hiding out in the Crowne Tower penthouse.

"Ann?" Freddi asked her nervously. "Ann, is everything okay?"

"Yeah," Harley reassured him quickly, offering a small smile as she continued to watch Crowne and Sofia across the room. "Yeah, everything is okay."

Sofia Falcone's attention drifted from Crowne as she looked around the room, searching for something. Then her hooded eyes landed on Harley, and she pursed her lips thoughtfully. Harley held her gaze stoically, her pulse picking up as she realized what this all meant.

"I don't feel so good," Freddi looked sick suddenly, one of his hands massaging his stomach. "Oh, boy."

"I need to take care of something," Harley said quietly, pulling away from him. She didn't hear his response or see what he did next, leaving him on the dance floor as she slipped away through the crowd, making sure to keep her pace measured and her expression neutral, even as her heart began to pound distractingly loud in her ears.

Ever since this whole thing started, Harley had been longing for one thing— freedom. Even before that, when she didn't know what she wanted, only that she was unhappy with the life she'd made for herself, she longed for it then too. Now there was an opportunity in front of her, and it was hers to take; her own path to power that didn't include the Joker.

Harley lifted her chin as she breezed through the crowd to the far side of the room, moving out of the living room and down a hall where people were waiting to use a bathroom. She continued past them, taking note of a door that looked likely to be a linen closet, and then a set of double doors possibly leading to an office.

Keeping her eyes on the people waiting to use the bathroom, Harley tried the handle. It lowered easily, and she slipped inside.

It was a large but tidy office with fluffy white carpet, and a slim desk with a silver MacBook laying closed on its surface. The walls were covered in pictures of Sofia Falcone with her family and other famous, stylish people that even Harley recognized. She flipped the light on at the wall as she strolled in, examining the pictures before she sat down at the desk and considered the Macbook.

Options.

There were so many options.

Harley leaned back in the desk chair, exhaling through her nose to calm herself, then pulled off the wig and dropped it on the desk. It was a relief to have the thing off, and she tugged out the pins holding her hair up before raking her fingers through the wavy blonde strands.

Then the office door opened, and Sofia Falcone appeared.

She quickly closed the door behind her, her expression inscrutable as she observed Harley reclining in her chair, and the wig strewn across her desk.

Harley offered her a small smile and spun a lock of her hair around her finger, waiting for the other woman to make the first move.

"Did he send you?" Sofia demanded, her mouth pursed and her nostrils flaring. "Am I next?"

"Next?" Harley's smile blossomed as she realized Sofia thought she was there to kill her. "Oh no, I'm not here for that."

"Why did he send you?" Sofia asked coldly, making Harley's smile disappear.

"He didn't send me." Harley stood slowly, maintaining eye contact as she circled the desk to lean against it. "I'm not his puppet," she added grimly.

Some of the iciness slipped out of Sofia's expression, replaced with haughty disdain. "Then why are you here?"

"I thought we should get to know each other," Harley replied, bracing her hands on the desk and leaning back. "Your name keeps coming up and... well, you see Sofia, I think we're a good fit for each other."

"A good fit," Sofia snapped. "What on earth does that mean?"

"It means the men who are in charge now cannot be trusted." Harley met Sofia's gaze meaningfully. "But you could be."

"You mean Penguin," Sofia took a step closer, no less suspicious but certainly intrigued.

"I mean the Joker too," Harley said softly. "I would be a fool to trust him."

"I see," Sofia purred then, a sly smirk sliding onto her mouth. "You're betraying him."

Harley didn't say anything.

"No, you're not a fool, are you, Dr Quinzel," Sofia continued, taking another step forward. "Not madly in love with him. You're just trying to make it in the world with your big ambitions." Another two steps and she was right in front of Harley, gazing down at her coolly. "I like ambition, Harley. So tell me, how do you expect me to put my faith in a woman who was nothing more than an  _academic_  just a month ago when she tells me she wants to make me Queen of Gotham."

" _Queen_  of Gotham. I kinda like that," Harley's mouth curled up on one side. "I don't have a plan to make you Queen, Sofia, but I'll tell you what." She pushed away from the desk, squaring off with the other woman who still loomed over her. "Before I killed your pal Franco Bertinelli I tortured him until he told me about your deal with Bertie Crowne. I don't know if you're aware of this, but Sal Maroni is hiding out at Crowne's penthouse. Now," she lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "If I were only interested in my ambition and survival, I would go over to Crowne Tower tonight and tell Maroni everything I know about the Joker, and I would help him get out of this mess with Penguin for which, I am sure, he would be eternally grateful to me."

Sofia's eyes widened as Harley spoke.

"But that isn't where I am," she continued mildly. "I'm here with you. And soon enough, Maroni will be dead, and Penguin will be in charge, and that is when  _we_ need to be on the same page." She used her index finger to gesture between them. "So what do you say? Let's be friends, huh?"

"My goodness," Sofia said softly, looking Harley over again. "You certainly are something."

Harley smirked and pretended to shrug bashfully before her expression hardened again.

"You're asking me to trust you," Sofia pointed out drily.

"No," Harley shook her head, her mouth a grim line. "I'm asking you to believe in me."

* * *

Harley slipped out of Sofia's office and drifted back down the hall to the party, discretely nudging her wig back into place. Her heart was still thundering in her chest after her meeting with Sofia, which had gone as well as she could have hoped. They hadn't made each other any promises, but Harley felt she now had a card up her sleeve to play when the time was right.

She looked around for Freddi once she was submerged in the swarm of party-goers again, but he wasn't with Bobby Kane and his prep school friends or loitering near the table laden with free champagne. After a full circuit of the room, Harley started to wonder if he might have left, which would have been a relief because then  _she_  could take off too. She was on the verge of heading for the exit when someone grabbed her wrist, making her whirl around, her nerves on edge and her body ready for a fight.

Harley froze at what she was confronted with. The someone who grabbed her wrist was a tuxedoed man with sandy-brown hair tied up in a knot at the back of his head, the lower half of his face covered by a thick beard. Among the sea of men in tuxedos, some younger and more rebellious or fashionable with hipster beards like Bobby Kane, he didn't stand out, but a fake beard wasn't enough to hide the Joker from Harley.

Her eyes widened as she imagined an array of different scenarios to explain why he was there, how he was there, and if he knew what she had just done.

The Joker cocked his head to the side, his grip on her wrist relaxing as his hand slid down to hold hers. "Wanna dance?"

Harley nodded slowly, not sure what else she could do but follow as he led her back to the small dance floor where they were playing a slow jazz number. He turned back to face her once they were standing among the sea of swaying couples, using his hold on her hand to pull her closer as his palm settled at the small of her back. Unlike Freddi, the Joker immediately took the lead, stifling all his usual attention-grabbing mannerisms for the sake of masquerading as a member of the trust fund brigade. One who knew how to dance, apparently.

"What are you doing here?" Harley asked quietly, her voice sounding strained. She shut her eyes, praying for strength because God, did she fucking need it now.

 _"Oh,_  just keepin' an eye on things," the Joker drawled, his eyes sweeping over the room. "Heard there may be some...  _trouble_. You know these trust fund types..."

"Keeping an eye on  _me?"_  Harley scowled, glaring up at him.

His eyes darted down to hers, the fake beard doing nothing to hide the smirk on his face even if it hid his scars. "Now, I didn't say  _that_... did I?"

"Does that mean you're  _not_  here to keep an eye on me?" Harley pushed, knowing how he favored pedanticism in his truthfulness.

He sighed and rolled his eyes to the side before dragging them back to her. "Not  _everything_  is about you, Harl," he said flatly, and Harley felt herself relax a fraction, relieved that at least he wasn't there to spy on her as she secretly met with a woman she knew he intensely disliked, if not despised.

"Aren't you going to ask me why I'm here?" She asked.

"I  _assume_  you're here for Freddi Maroni," he hummed, shooting her a sidelong look. "Saw him before he went into the bathroom. Smack's a  _killer_  for the guts.  _Not_  very pretty."

Harley made a face but didn't say anything, choosing to stare at the wall over his shoulder as she thought about what it meant that in her moment of triumph, which had taken so much time and planning to get to, he was just  _there,_ acting as if it had all been so easy for him.

 _"Har-ley_ ," the Joker sang lightly, his hand sliding up her back until he reached her naked shoulder. She shifted her gaze up to his, distracted from her resentment when he nudged two fingers under the thin strap of her dress and pressed her closer. "Stop lookin' at me like I've ruined your party," he growled, his eyes glinting. "I  _know_  you're secretly happy I'm here."

"Secretly happy," Harley scoffed. "What makes you think that?"

"If I tell ya the truth," he smirked, his blunt nails grazing her shoulder blade, making goosebumps jump up on her skin. "You'll just call me a narcissist."

Even as she continued to glower at him, Harley's mouth turned up at one corner. He had an irritating habit of saying just the right thing to knock her out of a sour mood, and she lowered her cheek to his shoulder so he couldn't see her smiling as they danced through one song and into another.

He smelled good, she thought as she swayed with him. He was wearing a musky aftershave just like all the other men at the party, including Freddi, a minute detail to go with his shameless disguise of false beard and tuxedo. But even if he smelled just like all the other men in the room,  _this_  was the Joker. On him, the musky scent was a complex highlighter of both his capacity for deception and the unmitigated male-ness of him.

He pulled the strap of her dress taut with his thumb, his fingertips drifting over her shoulder blade until Harley lifted her head to look up at him, finding him watching her through heavy-lidded eyes.

"That's a  _great_  dress," he said throatily, releasing the strap so it snapped against her skin, making Harley inhale sharply as his smirk grew again.

"Thanks," she said cautiously. He was rarely so forthrightly lascivious with her, certainly not in public when he was in the middle of a job, which he no doubt was if he wasn't only there to keep an eye on her.

His hand trailed back down her spine to land low on her back, low enough that he could trace the line of her underwear with his little finger. He cocked his head to the side, gazing down at her appraisingly.

"Wanna get out of here?" He asked, his hand inching lower. His eyebrows raised a fraction when he realized she was wearing the barely-there style undergarment her dress required, his fingertip following the seam down her ass where it disappeared between her cheeks.

Harley looked away from him, feeling her body reacting almost embarrassingly strongly, and she took a deep breath, trying not to squirm or give herself away.

Yes, she most certainly did want to get out of there with him. She wanted to get far away from the trust fund brigade and Freddi Maroni, who had now served his purpose, and she wanted the Joker to take her somewhere they could be alone for a few hours or a few days, and she could breathe in the smell of that musky aftershave while he touched her. That was what she wanted, but she was reluctant to allow herself to have it. It felt too  _easy._

 _"Unless_  I'm interrupting something," he purred suggestively, one eyebrow arching.

"No," Harley said quickly, feeling a rush of nervousness over the suggestion that she was up to something. "No, I'm done here."

She kept hold of his hand as they moved through the guests toward the exit, not stopping when Sofia Falcone picked up a microphone to thank her guests for their donations to Janice Porter's DA campaign. Out in the reception room, they waited as security called the private elevator for them, the Joker doing an impressive job of inspecting the ceiling instead of tapping his foot or making a show of his impatience, but Harley might have just been projecting her anxiety to get out of there onto him.

The elevator arrived, and they stepped inside, and once the doors slid shut, Harley ripped the wig off her head and ran her fingers through her hair, relieved to be done with the thing. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and looked up at the Joker expectantly, and after a beat, he lifted his hands to her face, his thumbs sliding along her jaw as he kissed her. Harley closed her eyes, feeling this obedience was a bit out of character for him, but as he backed her up against the elevator's mirrored wall, she rapidly realized she didn't care.

She kissed him back hard, her hands trailing up his back beneath his tux jacket before she pulled back to rip off the fake beard, tossing it down beside her abandoned wig. He stooped to grab her behind one knee, pulling her leg over his hip as his mouth moved down to her throat. Harley sighed happily and let her head fall back as he found the hem of her dress and slipped his hand between her legs, stroking her through her underwear. She heard him hum thoughtfully against her neck as he hooked his finger around the thin strip of lace and pulled it tight, making her inhale sharply.

As his mouth moved down her chest, the errant feeling that there was something a little _different_  about this encounter rolled through Harley's brain. But she batted it aside, her body growing pliable and hot in his hands as he touched her.

The elevator reached the ground floor too soon, the doors dinging cheerfully and making them jump apart and straighten their clothes. The Joker took her hand as they walked through the lobby with their heads down, the doormen exchanging looks over their rumpled clothes instead of their identities. It was hilarious, and they sent each other secretive smirks as they raced across the street and down the block to the underground parking garage of Lonnie's building.

They were on top of each other as soon as the doors to the honeymoon suite elevator closed.

"Is he up there," Harley murmured, bracing herself against the railing. The Joker's mouth was moving down her jaw to her throat as his hand snaked under her dress again.

"Nah," he said shortly, returning to her neck before he tugged her underwear aside and slipped his a finger inside her without warning.

Harley groaned weakly, her hand flying up to his shoulder to anchor herself as he ran his palm along her jaw, his thumb brushing over her lips. Harley sucked his thumb into her mouth thoughtlessly, making another weak sound when he added a second finger to the first and curled them inside her.

Her eyes were rolling to the back of her head, and she caught sight of herself in the mirror opposite her. They looked like something off a romance novel cover, from their clothes to their compromising position to the mindless look on her face as she sucked his thumb and her eyelashes fluttered. And again, the sense that this was a little...  _different_  coursed through her, more strongly than before. But before she had to decide if she was going to do something about it, the elevator reached Lonnie's penthouse, and the Joker stepped away from her.

He huffed out a heavy breath, his dark eyes sweeping over her. "I gotta make a call," he informed her gruffly, and she nodded woodenly, staggering out of the elevator on rubbery legs.

He shucked the tuxedo jacket, letting it land on the floor in a heap, then retrieved a phone from his pocket and stomped across the living room to the floor to ceiling windows, snapping instructions down the phone at a minion.

As promised, Lonnie wasn't there, and neither was any of his stuff, the small penthouse much cleaner than the last time Harley had been there. She wondered if he was gone for good or for that night only. Had the Joker known she would be at Sofia Falcone's party or not? She still felt like she was missing something, but her body and brain were currently consumed with her more basic impulses, and as she watched the Joker pace while he talked on the phone she discovered she was smiling stupidly, that giddy feeling returning with reckless abandon.

Harley kicked off her shoes and wandered into the kitchen, which was large and luxurious by all reasonable standards, though she suspected it was probably small for the building. She pulled open a few cupboards and found them stocked with the kind of food college boys who didn't know how to cook lived off of. Another cabinet revealed a decent collection of booze, and Harley picked out the nicest bottle of bourbon she could find and poured a considerable measure into a glass before she hopped up on the counter, swinging her legs as she sipped her drink.

The Joker appeared a minute later, raking his hair off his face. He'd removed the elastic band, and it was falling lank and greasy across his forehead.

"This place makes me feel like a fuckin' coke dealer," he complained as he joined her, knocking her knee to the side so he could step between her legs.

Harley's stupid beaming smile only grew as she offered him the drink and hooked her legs around his hips, drawing him closer. He swallowed a mouthful of bourbon then set the glass aside and reached for her, one of his hands smoothing up her back while the other tangled in her hair.

Harley kissed him indulgently, debating sharing what she'd learned about Bertrum Crowne and Maroni. Keeping Maroni's location from the Joker didn't give her any specific kind of advantage, it would only slow him down, and she wasn't interested in slowing him down. Taking Maroni out together could be fun, and even if she didn't  _want_  to enjoy his appreciation, there was no point denying she would absolutely _love_  to see the look on his face when she handed him the man he'd been hunting for weeks.

"I know where Maroni is," Harley murmured into his mouth, and the Joker pulled back, smirking as he smoothed a hand through her hair.

"Oh...  _me too,_ " he purred, ducking down to kiss her again.

It took a few seconds for his words to sink in, but once they did Harley pulled away, her forehead creasing into a frown.

"What do you mean?" She asked, eyeing him warily.

"Uh... I mean I know he's hidin' out in the Crowne penthouse," he replied, then widened his eyes dramatically. "Wait... isn't that  _your_  old building?"

"How long have you known," Harley asked quietly, dread slowly creeping into her gut as she tried to figure out his angle.

"Uh..." He rolled his eyes up like he was thinking hard. "I'd say like a...  _month,_  give or take."

"A month!" Harley bristled indignantly because indignant was better than humiliated. "Why the hell did you have me follow Freddi? And why did you have me interrogate Bertinelli if you've known all this time!"

"Aww, I wanted to see what you'd do," his mouth curved into a weirdly affectionate smile even as his eyes were gleaming wickedly, a cruel kind of wickedness Harley had not been on the receiving end of before. He chucked her under the chin. "And you didn't disappoint."

He moved to kiss her again, but Harley reeled back and shoved him hard in the chest, unsuccessfully trying to put space between them.

"You wanted to see what I'd  _do_?" She demanded, feeling horrified and  _stupid_. "This whole time, you just wanted to see what I'd  _do!_ "

"Not  _just_  that," he rolled his eyes like she was being unreasonable, and started to say something further but Harley wedged her knees between them and shoved him again, and this time he took a step back so she could jump off the counter. She needed to leave.

His hand closed around her wrist, stopping her from going out into the living room, and when she turned back to face him, his expression had soured. He yanked her forward hard, and she crashed into his chest, then his hand flew up to grab a handful of her hair, forcing her head back and making her shout.

"Remind me again how you found out about Crowne?" He snapped, his voice lowering to that inhuman tone that made Harley's blood curdle. "Oh.  _That's right_. You had a little  _girl talk_  with Sofia Falcone.  _Didntcha?"_

Harley's nostrils flared, and she clawed at his hand, trying to shake him off, but he released her with an irritated huff like she wasn't worth his time.

"You may be good," he told her roughly, straightening his shirt cuffs as he brushed past her. "But you're not that good." He shot her one final, disappointed look then turned away.

Harley stared after him, too stunned to move until she was hurtling out into the living room, where she skidded to a stop. A man built like a linebacker was standing in the small foyer next to the elevator, his black suit and tie pristine, his shoes shiny, his watch a gold Rolex. The elevator doors slid apart, and the man held them open for the Joker as he shrugged his tuxedo jacket back on, giving the lapels a violent tug to straighten them.

"You're a  _monster_ ," Harley accused, her voice sounding hollow.

He swiveled back around to glare at her, then stormed straight up to her, stopping just short of running her over.

 _"You,"_  he hissed, wagging his finger in her face. "Are  _just_  like me...  _We_  are the _same_."

"I'm nothing like you," Harley protested, hating herself as she cowered away from him.

"Oh _really,_ " he snapped, his lip curling into an ugly sneer. "You're a  _killer,_  and you're fuckin'  _ruthless._  You've got your own agenda. I get it.  _Fine_. But right now I need you outta the way. No more  _chit-chats_  with Sofia fuckin' Falcone or anyone else." He spun away and stomped back to the elevator, stopping at the edge of the living room to gesture to the man in the suit. "This is Elijah," he explained without looking at her, his voice sounding tight. "He's your babysitter, and he's ex Israeli intelligence so, ya know, fuck with him at your own peril."

"What the hell does that mean!" Harley demanded, attempting to follow him up into the foyer, but Elijah held out an arm, blocking her from passing as the Joker stepped into the elevator. He shot her one last bitter look before the doors closed and he disappeared.

* * *

**A/N: That went downhill fast.**

**Next: How long will Harley be trapped in the honeymoon suite? Why is the Joker keeping her there? What is Victor Zsasz up to? Whatever happened to Crane's fear toxin? Will we ever find out what the Joker's been thinking/feeling this whole time? And what about all those bombs his clowns were building?**

**Please comment with your thoughts & feedback ;)**


	20. Chapter 20

The Harlequin

20.

* * *

_"What are you gonna do about Harley, boss?"_

That's what Bruno asked the Joker the night they picked up Marco Panessa, just before they all got in that ill-fated van, and those words had been rattling around the Joker's brain like a mantra ever since.

He'd shrugged at the time. Who knew how it would pan out, but it was sure to be interesting. Why should Harley go to jail just for indulging in some good old fashioned violence?

Two days later—two days during which Harley proved herself to be even ballsier than the Joker had given her credit for; painting her face to send him a message (received loud and clear), fearlessly walking headfirst into Bertinelli's den of snakes, killing a room full of thugs all on her own, saving  _the Joker's_  ass—he'd woken up with her hovering over him, her hand on his forehead, taking his fucking temperature _._  It was  _distracting_.

_What are you gonna do about Harley, boss?_

So, he handed her off to Bruno. Give her a job, something to keep her busy, get her somewhere she can hide out, just keep her out of the way and out of prison. He hadn't lied to her about wanting to see what she'd do—the Joker was  _always_  interested to see what she'd do—but mostly, the Freddi Marino business had been Bruno's idea to keep her busy and at arm's length. It wasn't like the Joker had time to  _babysit._

But just as Harley turned Bruno into a mother hen, she soon had Marty wrapped around her little finger too, getting herself an invite to one of the O'Rileys' quests for revenge at the Stacked Deck. And what happened that night? Harley showed up at the Joker's safe house with her face painted, pissed off, freaked out, and full of adrenaline, claiming she'd just escaped the Batman after putting a hole in Bertinelli's leg.

Who  _was_  this woman?

The dam broke, and they finally did what they'd been dancing around for weeks, maybe even months. But a taste was never enough with Harley, and fucking her fully clothed had been an  _outrageously_ unfair taste. That distracting need for more of her had the Joker bolting as soon as she fell off him. There were too many plates about to start spinning for that kind of distraction.

_What are you gonna do about Harley, boss?_

A week later, a week of no sleep and constant movement and laying threads to be pulled during  _events forthcoming,_  and the Joker found himself exhausted and loitering outside Grin and Bare It. He'd needed a little relief, a little fun, a little distraction, and he was curious to see how she'd react to the offer. Would she tell him to fuck off or invite him up?

She chose option C as she always did, dragging him into her car, wanting him but not wanting to admit it. It was another taste that wasn't enough.

It was never enough.

_What are you gonna do about Harley, boss?_

Give her a new job, Bruno, give her something to sink her teeth into instead of the dead-end that was Freddi Maroni's driver. Let her torture someone; she'd like that. She'd be  _good_  at that. She always enjoyed their chats about torture, and that was what the Joker  _really_ wanted to see. But he miscalculated. He drove straight to the warehouse after getting Bambi out of the MCU, not paying close enough attention to realize the Batman was right on his heels the  _one_  time he didn't want him to be.

See?  _Distraction._

Harley saved his ass again by beating the shit out of the Batman— _almost_ killing him. That was annoying, frustrating, but the way she'd offered herself up to him later washed all of that away.  _Finally,_  the Joker got to have her the way he wanted her, and it was a fucking revelation. Every breathless sound he pulled out of her tickled his ego and turned him on and  _sucked_ him in.

Harley was a passionate, hot-blooded person trapped in an ice-cold cage of logic, constantly torturing herself over her impulses and desires. Except when it came to sex. The Joker has been  _thrilled_ to learn that when it came to sex, Harley took what she wanted and demanded even more, letting go of all that toxic  _restraint_  and just...  _giving in —_ allowing herself to have a little  _fun_  for a change.  _Jesus Christ,_  imagine if she was like that all the time.

_What are you gonna do about Harley, boss?_

Lean into it, that was what. There wasn't any point resisting Harley, let alone resisting the chemistry between them and the  _fantastically_  intense sex that went with it. And even if she didn't want to admit it to herself, it was what she wanted too. She'd given the Joker the silent treatment when he swung by the boxing club, only to show up at Bruno's later that night to fuck him in the front seat of her car.

What was it with her and cars? As if that didn't  _count._

It was the same story the next night in her room. Panting and writhing and chanting his goddamn name—or close to it, anyway—one minute, a total dick to him the next.

Harley's problem was she was a planner; she couldn't bring herself to  _lean in_  without knowing what would come next _._  For a few minutes or a few hours, she'd let herself go with him, but she was convinced this wouldn't end well, and she wanted to make a place of her own in the world. Intellectually, the Joker knew the thing to do was help her in this, but unfortunately, he couldn't find the motivation to do it. A few words of advice about riding out the storm was all he was capable of. Maybe it was that  _empathy_  thing she was always talking about.

_What are you gonna do about Harley, boss?_

That  _planning_  of hers turned into her making _political_  moves the Joker should have anticipated.

It took a lot to piss him off. Most people misinterpreted frustration or annoyance as anger on the Joker, but he'd been pissed off that night at the Iceberg Lounge. He'd gone up there intending to send her a message— _stay in your lane, little girl_ _—_ but less than twenty-four hours later, he found himself in bed with her, relaxed and lazy after a day of exceptionally great sex, telling her things about himself _—_ an unfamiliar impulse—and watching remarkably sinister, remarkably entertaining reality shows with her, and  _learning_  about her.

_What are you gonna do about Harley, boss?_ _What are you gonna do about Harley, boss?_

Those moves she kept making only got more significant, and she ended up  _inserting_  herself right in the middle of  _events forthcoming_. Freddi Maroni RSVP'd for Sofia Falcone's fundraiser, which could only mean Harley was behind it. She had something up her sleeve, and that was fine, the Joker would be at Sofia's party anyway and could keep an eye on her. Then, the night before, as they'd walked back to the safe house in Burnley, she'd been radiating guilt. Like the fucking sun. And the Joker had realized she was planning on fucking him over.

_What are you gonna do about Harley, boss?_ _What are you gonna do about Harley, boss?_ _What are you gonna do about Harley, boss?_

_Fuck._  Knowing Harley was planning on betraying him only made the Joker want her more. He couldn't find the motivation to kill her—the urge just wasn't  _there_ _—_ so he arranged to have her set up at Lonnie's to keep her out of the way during  _events forthcoming._ A little heavy petting in the elevator was enough to distract her while a pair of Mossad agents-cum-mercenaries got settled into the honeymoon suite. Men she wouldn't be able to convert or coerce or beguile or physically overpower.

But only  _after_  the Joker got a chance to see what she had planned for him.

He would never, ever,  _ever_  have guessed she would take the unprecedented step of engaging Sofia.

_WhatareyougonnadoaboutHarleyboss_ _WhatareyougonnadoaboutHarleyboss_ _WhatareyougonnadoaboutHarleyboss_ _WhatareyougonnadoaboutHarleyboss_

Who the fuck knew anymore.

The Joker stepped into the honeymoon suite's elevator, gritting his teeth as he listened to Elijah stop Harley from following him, her wrath so palatable he could practically taste it.

When the doors shut, he raked both hands over his face, attempting to rub away thoughts of her. His fingers still smelled like her pussy after having his hand between her legs in the elevator, and he wiped them furiously on his tuxedo trousers, spitting a curse over how  _annoying_  she was,  _lingering_  with him constantly. Killing her would be the smart move, but the Joker  _still_  couldn't find the inspiration to do it. Her cold calculations and her willingness to fuck him over in the most fucked up way she could—Sofia,  _why_  did it have to be  _Sofia fucking Falcone_ —was liable to get  _him_ killed.

Harley was diabolical.

One of the Joker's  _favorite_  qualities _._

The elevator dinged open on the ground floor, and the Joker stepped out, scraping his hair back and tying it with the elastic band. He loped out of the parking garage and back down the street to Sofia's building, grabbing the fake beard he'd abandoned off the doorman.

"You alright, boss?" the doorman asked, a plant Bruno had arranged.

"Fuck off," the Joker snapped back, stomping through the lobby and into the elevator back up to Sofia's penthouse.

Events forthcoming were about to kick off. Dress rehearsals were over. It was time to start the show.

* * *

Harley sucked in a shaky breath as the elevator doors closed on the Joker, and she pivoted to Elijah, her anger over being caged outweighing logic as she attempted to punch him in the face. Elijah grabbed her fist easily, twisting her around so she was doubled over with her arm behind her back, making her cry out as pain raced up her arm and across her back.

"You can't do this!" She shrieked, trying to wiggle free, each movement making her arm feel like it was about to be ripped out of the socket.

"Dr Quinzel," Elijah said. "I'm going to let you go now, but I need you to promise me you won't try to hit me again."

Harley grit her teeth and stared down at the fluffy white carpet, her mind racing beyond her current predicament to the past hour, the past day, the past week, the past month, the past  _three_  months, trying to pick apart what had been truth and what had been a lie. But there were too many moments, too many choices, and she would have to be the stupidest woman alive not to realize if even part of it was a lie, all of it was.

And she had known.

She had  _known_  something wasn't right, but she went along with it anyway.

The Joker seduced her to get her in those damn elevators and up here with her  _babysitter._

It wasn't just that night. She had  _always_  known, from the moment she laid eyes on him, but she had given him leeway every step of the way.

Elijah released her hand, and Harley fell forward onto the carpet, landing on her hands and knees. She wanted to scream or sob, but with her babysitter looming, she could only bite down on her lip and breathe through her nose until at least  _some_  of the rage and humiliation had subsided. But as the shock of being manipulated began to wear off, reality settled in, and Harley started to feel cold and angry and alone—deeply,  _deeply_  alone.

"Dr Quinzel..."

"Why are you calling me that," Harley snapped, pulling herself to her knees. She wiped her face, happy to find that at least she wasn't crying like a little girl, and looked up at her  _babysitter_. "He doesn't call me that."

"What would you like me to call you?" Elijah asked, perfectly respectfully.

Harley stared up at him, bewildered. She didn't give a flying fuck what he called her, but she would be damned to hell if she would be locked up in a penthouse like some princess in a tower.

She got to her feet, attempting to find some dignity—not because she needed to prove it to Elijah, but herself—and strode back to the kitchen. There was a knife block but no knives, a cutlery drawer full of spoons, and not a single item she could use to kill or at least impair Elijah. She drained the rest of the bourbon from the glass on the counter, her hands shaking as she tried to figure out what it meant that the Joker had planned to keep her there.

Was that why he'd been at the party? To take her up here?

This had to have been planned in advance unless he had former Israeli intelligence officers on speed dial.

He's set it up before she'd met with Sofia, so that couldn't have been the catalyst.

Did he plan on keeping her there forever, or was this for a limited time only?

Harley poured another glass of bourbon and stomped back up to Elijah, aware that she must have made a sight scowling and swigging liquor in her rumpled gown.

"How long am I being kept here?" She demanded.

Elijah regarded her cooly. "I don't know Miss..." When Harley didn't fill in the blank for him, he continued. "I'm not aware of a time limit."

Harley spun away from him, spitting with righteous indignation as she swallowed another mouthful of liquor and stormed down the short hall on the other side of the kitchen to see what else she could dig up to aid in her escape. There was  _no way_  she would stay there even one night, regardless of how long the Joker intended to keep her captive.

There was a large bedroom at the end of a short hallway, which smelled overwhelmingly of air freshener and laundry detergent. If Lonnie had been living there, Harley couldn't imagine his room being any less filthy than a teenage boy's dorm room, and while she was glad she wasn't being subjected to  _that,_  something was insulting about having her prison cell cleaned so immaculately for her use.

The king-size bed had been made up with fresh white sheets, the floor to ceiling windows spotless, the minimalist furniture squeaky clean. Harley set her drink on the bedside table and got to work ripping the place apart in search of anything that could help her. The closet was empty; even the hangers had been removed. The drawers were bare aside from one that contained two pairs of unisex silk pajamas. Harley yanked the first set out of the drawer, feeling like she was losing her mind as she stared at the embroidered pocket— _Crowne_ —trying to find the meaning.

Then she remembered the honeymoon suite was on one of the top floors of Crowne's buildings, and that the building also housed a hotel. There was no deeper meaning to these silk pajamas except that the hotel staff had cleaned the honeymoon suite and left her with a couple of pairs of their pajamas. A trip to the spotlessly clean ensuite bathroom, outfitted with top-shelf hotel toiletries proved this to be the case. Harley lowered herself down on the closed toilet seat, burying her face in her hands as she tried to recalibrate.

Out in the living room, she heard the television turn on, playing what sounded like Mike Engel delivering the nightly news. She lifted her head from her hands, frowning, and started to get to her feet when she spotted something in the corner of the bathroom. One loose pink marble tile just under the bathroom sink.

Harley got down on her hands and knees beside the loose tile and wiggled it free, hope zipping through her that  _maybe_  something had been overlooked. But when the tile came free, all she found was a Tupperware container, and when she opened it, she deflated utterly. Half a bag of weed, some cigarette papers, and an orange prescription pill bottle. Harley huffed bitterly, slamming the plastic lid down on Lonnie's drug stash and shoving it back into the hole in the wall.

The television in the living room got louder, making it sound like Mike Engel was shouting across the penthouse. Pursing her lips, Harley reluctantly stomped back out to the living room to find Elijah at his post beside the elevator, the flat screen on the other side of the room yelling news about Dumas Corps' acquisition of fifty acres of wind turbines in Missouri.

Harley looked between the television and Elijah.

"I have been advised that you will want to see this," he said calmly.

Harley's eyes widened, and she turned back to the television, bewildered.

The broadcast fuzzed, Mike Engel's face rippling and pixelating before he disappeared completely, replaced with a black screen accompanied by the rustling of wind catching a microphone. The wind didn't stop, but the camera moved, and a throat cleared performatively, and then there was a man screaming.

"NO! No, for God's sake  _NO!"_

Harley's breath caught as the image on the screen became clearer. Three men on the roof of a building—a Midtown skyscraper if that was Wayne Tower looming in the background. Two of the men were wearing clown masks and holding a third person over the building's ledge, only his flailing legs visible as the screaming intensified. Then the camera drew closer, the cameraman aiming the lens over the side of the building to catch the horrified face of Bertrum Crowne as he dangled fifty-plus stories above the earth.

"Hiya, Bertie," the Joker drawled, his voice echoing around the living room through surround-sound speakers. "Thanks for joining us tonight."

"Please! Stop! Oh, God, oh, God!  _STOP!"_  Crowne pleaded, his tuxedo jacket flapping around his head. "I can pay you! I can make you rich men! Please stop!"

Harley lowered herself onto the sofa as she realized this was happening  _right now_.

"Shh, shh, shh," the Joker hushed him, talking over the wind. "C'mon Bertie. We've just got a few questions for ya."

"Please don't do this! For the love of God, I have a family! Stop!"

"Question one," the Joker continued, sounding amused. "How long have you been launderin' money for the mob, Bertie? Huh, go on, tell us, the people wanna know."

"What! I - I - I..."

The Joker's hand appeared in the shot, and he grabbed Crowne by the front of his shirt, hauling him up, so his horrified face was right in front of the camera. " _Bertie..."_  he purred.

"Earlier this year! After Dent started shutting down their guys!" Crowne's eyes were wide and desperate. "It wasn't much—just a few million!"

"Mmm hmm," the Joker hummed, sounding unimpressed. "For those at home who don't know what  _money laundering_  is, why dontcha explain how you do that..." When Crowne only stared dumbly at the camera, stunned that he was being asked to give a lesson in money laundering while dangling off the side of his building, the Joker released his shirt and let Crown fall backward, a horrified scream fighting with the wind for dominance on the camera's small microphone.

"They bought up units in our buildings!" Crowne wailed, and when the Joker grabbed his shirt and pulled him up again, he was sobbing. "They bought the penthouses, and we funneled the money back to them after—after—" he cried miserably. "—after taking our cut! Oh God, please don't..." He was released again, his screams getting caught in the wind.

"Huh," the Joker mused. "So you took a cut of the money the mob make sellin' drugs and guns and  _corruption_... that about it?"

There were screams of "Yes! Yes!" and the Joker hauled Crowne back up again.

"Do you expect the good people of Gotham to believe that if we'd never had this little  _heart to heart_  that you wouldn't uh... run right back out there and do it again given half the chance? Huh, Bertie? Huh?" The Joker slapped Crowne's cheek roughly to get his attention. "Whadya think? Would you do it again?"

"Yes!" Crowne sobbed. "Yes, I'd do it again!"

The Joker sighed reluctantly. "That's what I thought," he said, feigning disappointment. He released Crowne's shirt, but this time the clowns released his legs too and Crowne went tumbling over the side of the building, his arms and legs flailing, his screams growing fainter as he fell.

The camera turned away long before Crowne hit the pavement, the Joker's painted face taking up the screen again as he gave another melodramatic sigh.

"I'll never understand why the rich and powerful think they  _own_  the rest of you," he mused. "It's like you're just...  _food_  to them.  _Animals_  for them to slaughter. That jackass was the third wealthiest man in this city, but he just couldn't say _no_  to a little piece of that corrupt pie. They're all corrupt. You'll see...  _I'll show ya."_

He smirked into the camera, and in the distance behind him, there was an explosion in the sky, one that appeared simultaneously on the television as it did in real time out the honeymoon suite's window.

Harley stood quickly, drawn to the floor to ceiling windows as a series of fireballs ballooned in the sky on the other side of the city. It didn't look real, like something out of a movie, but there was no doubt this was happening right now. Lonnie's honeymoon suite faced east; it was Crowne Tower, Harley realized, her eyes widening as she remembered the Joker's goons making bombs in Bruno's front room.

The Joker was blowing up Crowne Tower with Maroni on the top floor.

Harley watched in silence as the explosions continued, and even high up in the honeymoon suite, she along with all the rest of Gotham could hear Crowne Tower start to collapse, and in the background, the Joker's manic laughter echoing from the television.

* * *

Harley retrieved the bourbon from the kitchen, drinking straight from the bottle as she watched the news cover the uncontrolled demolition of Crowne Tower and the massive dust cloud that had consumed almost the entirety of the Eastside. She blacked out around midnight when the death toll reached three-hundred between residents of the mostly empty building and the surrounding area where paramedics and firefighters were attempting to move people.

She woke up on the couch in the morning to find the news still blaring away about the tower and the dust cloud. There had been a development overnight, and now Vicki Vale from the Gazette, Greg Olsen from the Globe, and a city council member were on GCN arguing over the Joker.

Harley sat up slowly, peering around the room, and saw Elijah was still guarding the elevator, his hands folded behind his back as he stared straight ahead.

Still wearing her gown from the night before, Harley staggered to the kitchen in search of coffee, discovering Lonnie preferred a french press to a coffee pot. She boiled water and stirred the coffee in, then slumped back to the bedroom to scrub her face and change into one of the pairs of pajamas left for her.

Harley's brain was too fuzzy to think clearly as she retrieved the coffee and two cups, and flopped back down on the couch to find out what the journalists on GCN were talking about. It wasn't like she had anything else to do.

She poured herself a mug of coffee then glanced back at Elijah. He looked tired, probably because he'd been standing all night.

"Coffee?" She asked blearily.

He raised an eyebrow, suggesting she would have to try harder than that to kill him.

"Christ," Harley rolled her eyes and gulped down some coffee to make her point. "What am I gonna do, poison you with Cheeto dust?"

She saw Elijah smile, which sent a shiver of hope up her spine. If she could get him to trust her...

Harley poured a second mug of coffee and walked it over to Elijah, then fell bonelessly on the couch to see what was happening.

"The question is  _why_  is he doing this," Greg Olsen was saying. "He's showing us the corruption of the elites of this city, the  _corrupt_  elites who were so in bed with criminals not even Harvey Dent could get to them. We have to seriously ask ourselves why the Joker is presenting us with this existential crisis."

"Greg, you have theorized that the Joker may be a veteran suffering from PTSD, putting him in the same vigilante category as the Batman," Naomi Meadows said. "Do you think this is some kind of... deranged attempt to make us question the power structure? To instigate a revolution against the status quo?"

"Obviously!" Greg threw his hands up.

"It's not obvious," Vicki Vale jumped in. Her long, pale blonde hair was scraped back into a messy ponytail, and she had dark circles under her eyes like she'd been up all night, her prominent canine teeth making her look slightly wild on the morning news. "The Joker doesn't have PTSD. He's an 'antisocial narcissist who uses his world view to indulge in his violent impulses.' Harley Quinn wrote those words, and she knows the Joker better than anyone."

"Harley Quinn is a wanted criminal in league with the Joker," the city council member scoffed. "She might not have been in the video last night, but she was in in his last one, and that means she could be behind this too."

"Harley Quinn is a victim first and foremost," Vale shot back. "And even if she is a criminal _now,_  she wasn't when she wrote that about the Joker. She is the _only_  person who can even come close to knowing why the Joker does what he does."

"Listen, I don't know how the hell Harley Quinn factors into any of this," Olsen spoke up. "The facts are that by dumping documents on both the Crowne Group and Dumas Corps, the Joker is speaking truth to power, and in a democracy the most important thing is—"

"Here are the facts," Vale cut him off. "Regardless of the Joker's motives, the Crowne Group laundered money for the mob here in Gotham, and we have an admission on tape by Bertrum Crowne—"

"While he was being dangled off the side of a building by an insane person dressed as a clown!" the city council member sputtered.

Naomi Meadows leaned in then, pressing two fingers to her earpiece.

"We've just gotten word that the FBI has opened investigations into both the Crowne Group and Dumas Corps. Lawyers from both companies have not been able to be reached for comment, and we are told Bertrum Crowne's immediate family have left the city."

"The Dumas clan will be on their way out within the day," Olsen predicted. "We're still going through the documents, but from our first look, we're talking about cover-ups, oil spills, toxic waste decimating communities, political and corporate bribery, hush money payments. The list goes on! The Joker revealed this corruption to us, and it's only because of his exhaustive methods that we know what these people have been up to!"

Harley spent the rest of the morning with her mouth hanging open as she watched a rotating panel of pundits and journalists and politicians argue over the Joker's motives, the stock market crashing, and the leaked documents and emails showing systemic corruption at Kane and Dumans, two of the biggest corporations in the world, both of them based in Gotham. But the more the leaked documents were analyzed by professionals and laymen alike, the more they were forced to focus on corruption and greed instead of the Joker's motives.

Around lunchtime, Elijah was replaced with another man who behaved and carried himself in the same fashion as Elijah, so Harley thought of him as Elijah 2, but she was more concerned with what was happening on the news than with her babysitter.

By early afternoon Mike Engal was back on the air, covering environmental activists protesting Dumas Corps' damaging climate change policies outside their headquarters in Midtown, and by nightfall, the protest had expanded with Gotham University students jumping in. Even from her perch in the penthouse, Harley could see the group growing as they chanted and marched to City Hall where the Mayor gave a speech attempting to reassure Gotham's citizens that they were doing all they could to catch the Joker.

But that wasn't what the people of Gotham wanted to hear.

Meanwhile, the massive dust cloud settling over Eastside sent the poverty-stricken residents scattering, some getting caught up in the protests, some fleeing to the southern side of Gotham to take shelter in abandoned warehouses. There weren't enough police to deal with all of it, and soon enough there were calls to bring in the National Guard.

It was almost beautiful, what the Joker created, and it _almost_  made Harley forget how pissed she was over being manipulated and taken prisoner. He'd done exactly what she'd told him to do— _show_  people the ugliness of the world instead of forcing them to see it. He'd delivered incontrovertible evidence on a scale no climate change activist or corruption-challenging DA ever could.

People were pissed, and chaos was brewing as the poor were forced from their homes into desperate situations while the elites were made to recognize the intellectual validity of the Joker's point of view on live TV, and above them all, the trust fund brigade cowered in fear in their towers.

Then, later that night, Gotham was reminded just how violent and vicious the Joker could be. That he was first and foremost a terrorist, even if he also happened to be correct.

It was edging close to ten o'clock and a new panel of pundits—once again including the Globe's Greg Olsen—were discussing the Mayor's speech while over 500 hundred environmentalists and students chanted around him. Elijah 2 had been replaced by Elijah 1 again, and Harley could feel him watching the scene unfolding on the television behind her.

The broadcast wobbled and pixelated, and the panel of pundits disappeared to a static screen accompanied by a loud beep for thirty heart-wrenching seconds before the image shifted again, and this time there was a chubby man of about thirty with a black eye on the screen. He wore a rumpled suit, his white shirt splattered with dried blood, his tie askew. As the camera panned out, it became apparent he was duct-taped to a chair in the middle of a richly decorated office.

"Tell us your name," the Joker's requested cheerfully.

The chubby man was whimpering with his eyes squeezed shut, but he managed to choke out his name all the same. "Barry... Barry Kane."

"Barry Kane," the Joker purred, moving the camera forward so Barry's face took up the whole shot. "And tell me...  _Barry_ , what do you do?"

"I-I-I'm a partner at Kane, Thorne, and Associates. I'm a lawyer."

"Uh huh," the Joker sounded bored. "And how about what you  _really_  do."

Barry's face crumpled. "I fix things for them. Legal problems."

"Who's  _them_?" the Joker snarled.

"Kane... Dumas... Crowne..." Barry sniffed, his jaw trembling. "If someone needed to be paid off or threatened. If someone needed to be kept quiet, I'd do it."

"And uh," the Joker shifted, and Harley could imagine him perched on the edge of a desk, holding the camera with one hand, his chin resting on his fist like he was indulging Barry as he listened. "What might people need to be kept quiet about?"

"Insider trading," Barry squeezed his eyes shut like his situation would disappear if he didn't look at it. "Affairs, bad press, the taxes."

"Oh the  _taxes_ , huh," the Joker drawled lazily, moving on from Barry to a prematurely balding man of about forty. He was sporting a nasty cut over his eyebrow, dried blood coating one half of his face, and he was duct-taped to a chair, just like Barry.

"How about you pal, whaddya do?"

"I'm David Kane. I'm an accountant for the Kane Company," he said quietly, shooting furtive looks to his left and right. "I um, I find places to hide the money."

"Hide the money, huh," the Joker hummed. "What kinds of places?"

"Offshore banks, anywhere the IRS can't reach it," David swallowed thickly.

"And uh... would you say that's...  _legal_ ," the Joker deadpanned.

David pressed his lips together and exhaled through his nose like he was trying to stay calm. "Not the way we did it," he admitted.

"Interesting... interesting," the Joker turned the camera on a third man, this one older and wearing gold wire-framed glasses with broken lenses.

"And you are?"

"Kenneth Kane," he spat disdainfully. "CFO of the Kane Company."

"And uh, did  _you_  know about all this naughtiness,  _Kenneth_?"

"I directed them to do it," Kenneth bit out. "This is on me. Not my family."

"Oh,  _noble_. That's new," the Joker said drily, turning to a fourth man, also duct-taped to the chair like the others. This one Harley recognized as Jacob Kane, the man who offered Walsh a book deal and sat on Arkham's board of directors. He was seething at the Joker, his nostrils flaring and his teeth bared.

"Come on, buddy, I ain't got all day," the Joker snapped.

"I'm Jacob Kane," he replied bitterly. "I'm the CEO of Kane Publishing, a subsidiary of the Kane Company."

"And uh... how much do they pay for a gig like that?"

Jacob's lip curled. "About five million a year," he admitted sourly.

"Ooh, sounds  _important_ ," the Joker chuckled. "But what do you  _really_  do."

When Jacob only continued to scowl, the Joker swung the camera back around to Kenneth the CFO. "Kenny, can ya help me out?"

Kenneth shot his relative a disgusted look. "He gambles, drinks, and whores away his father's hard-earned money."

" _Yikes_ ," the Joker snickered meanly, backing away from his four prisoners so they were all in the shot. They were in a big office with Persian carpets, mahogany paneling, and richly embroidered drapes, all of it screaming wealth, privilege, and power. "You guys are all  _terrible,_  ya know that?"

Four clowns toting automatic rifles moved in then, each taking one of the chairs and rolling the four men into a circle, so they were facing each other. Then the clowns sliced through the duct tape binding the men to the chairs and stood back, their weapons raised.

A long knife appeared in the shot, its serrated blade glinting in the dim light. The Joker tossed it into the circle of men, who were still sitting in their chairs, the clowns' guns aimed at their backs. When none of them moved, the Joker cleared his throat meaningfully, and the men looked around at each other uncertainly.

Jacob Kane and Kenneth Kane leaped out of their chairs at the same moment. David Kane followed suit, jumping on Kenneth's back to slow him down. Jacob reached the knife first, and lashed out at Kenneth, the blade sinking into the older man's chest. He moaned weakly and crumpled forward, throwing David off his back. David scrambled back as Jacob turned to Barry, stabbing him through the hand as he tried to cover himself, and then in the neck, cutting his throat.

David and Jacob faced off next, circling each other and feinting. Then Jacob dove for his relative, grabbing him around the waist and stabbing him in the back and shoulders until David stopped struggling and slumped against him.

Jacob collapsed to his knees and sat back on his heels, breathing heavily as he pushed David's body to the side. The camera zoomed in on Jacob's stunned, blood-spattered face, lingering for a moment before the screen went blank.

* * *

Harley slept on the couch, and in the morning, Elijah 1 was still at his post as she'd expected. She made coffee for the both of them and sat down to watch the news, sure that the Joker wasn't done with Gotham yet.

The bodies of Barry, David, Kenneth, and Jacob Kane were found hanging from City Hall at dawn. Their faces had been painted like the Joker's, and Jacob Kane had a Burger King crown stapled to his head. The protesters were out in full force by mid-morning, demanding action and answers from city hall and the police as their numbers began to swell.

In addition to the protesters, those who had been displaced from their homes as a result of the dust cloud covering the Eastside were now roaming the streets of Uptown and Midtown, trying to find shelter and food. The police and the National Guard attempted to separate the 'refugees' from the protesters, but the chaos grew to a point where they had to use tear gas and water cannons, and by afternoon riots started to break out all over the city.

Greg Olsen from the Globe was back on GCN, blithering on about the Joker's motives again. They brought on Commissioner Gordon too, who attempted to give productive advice to citizens, telling them where they could find aid and shelter, but Olsen continued to talk over him much to Gordon's chagrin.

"This is what he wants!" Gordon snapped. "He's sowing division and chaos, driving people to violence— this is exactly what he wants!"

"All the Joker has done is show people the truth," Olsen countered. "A point he made explicitly clear using  _your_  daughter, Commissioner Gordon."

"Only to instigate violence and chaos, you have to see that!" Gordon pleaded. "This isn't about the truth!"

"Just look at Palestine!" Olsen threw his hands up. "Violence is what happens when people are oppressed and mistreated! You can't blame the Palestinians for what the Israelis do to them!"

Gordon could only stare into the camera, too stunned to reply.

"What are you hiding, Commissioner? Why is the Joker sending you personal messages about truth-telling?" Olsen narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but Gordon appeared at a loss for words.

That afternoon, as the riots continued and news circulated that the FBI was now investigating Kane as well as Crowne and Dumas, GCN brought on Joan Leland and Vicki Vale to discuss the Joker in one of the most surreal exchanges Harley had ever witnessed.

"Commissioner Gordon is correct," Joan said with her usual graceful calm. "The Joker is trying to create chaos so he can indulge in his violent, anti-social impulses. He is a dangerous, manipulative terrorist who is pitting us against each other."

"I agree with you on all of that, but we can't ignore how effective he is," Vale countered. "What does it say about  _all_  of us?"

"I do not deny that he is effective," Joan's calm wavered, her voice growing emotional. "Harleen Quinzel was one of my best students, I worked with her for years and never saw a single sign of violence in her, and yet she murdered our late colleague Murphy Walsh and is potentially partially responsible for this chaos."

Vale huffed in disgust. "Your precious Dr Walsh pushed her to this as much as the Joker did."

"What on earth are you talking about?" Joan bristled.

"I'm talking about Murphy Walsh leaking details of the Joker's attacks to  _me_  and painting Harleen Quinzel as incompetent and inept. If someone tried to destroy my career like that, I guarantee my mental health would suffer." Vale sneered. "Harley Quinn isn't just the Joker's victim; she was Walsh's victim too."

* * *

Harley had to take a break after that. She ran herself a bath in the clawfoot tub and immediately submerged herself beneath the water, holding her breath for as long as she could before returning to the surface. She sucked in a lungful of air and let her head fall back so she was staring at the ceiling, and ran her hands over her face.

It was becoming more apparent to her that she was being kept in the honeymoon suite so she wouldn't get in the Joker's way while he reaked havoc upon the city. That offended Harley. It pissed her off and filled her with resentment. She was not a  _child_ who needed to ask for permission.

But if Harley was honest with herself, she was more pissed off that the Joker had managed to get the upper hand over her again.

She'd been  _so_  close to pulling ahead of him; of catching him off guard.

Or at least she thought she'd been.

And what would happen when she was let go— _if_  she was let go? Did he expect her to fall back into his arms again?

Hell. No.

If Harley had a single shred of dignity, she would kill the Joker as soon as she got the chance.

That raised another question—why had he locked her up instead of killing her? He was capable of affection and attraction but not attachment. What did this say about their relationship that he had decided to keep her alive?

Thinking about her 'relationship' with the Joker was more stressful than watching the news cover the chaos outside, so Harley pulled herself out of the bath and dressed in the spare pair of pajamas, then returned to the living room where Elijah 1 and Elijah 2 had swapped posts again.

It was getting late, and that meant there was probably a Joker broadcast coming. Harley grabbed a bottle of gin and a glass from the kitchen and fell on the couch, waiting for the panel of pundits raving about the environmentalist activists using violent tactics to pixelate in time for the Joker's next home video to air.

And that was precisely what happened.

This time they were treated to a live broadcast of what played like an incredibly dark mini-documentary. Somehow, Lonnie managed to hack GCN for a full fifteen minutes, long enough to introduce Gotham to two drug addicts named Marion and George, and two drug dealers called Beanie and Slugface, all of them looking worse-for-wear, all of them sitting on the floor of a meat locker with their hands tied in front of them. All four told their stories, Bernie and Slugface describing how they would procure painkillers from doctors to make the heroin their Russian suppliers gave them stronger.

Then the camera spun to the other end of the meat locker, where four men in white lab coats were tied up and gagged. Their gags were removed, and it was revealed that they were doctors paid a salary by Elliot Pharmaceutical to push their most addictive drugs even if it meant prescribing them to known drug dealers. All that mattered were profits.

This was the  _real_  Elliot Pharmaceutical scandal Harley had nearly been sucked into when she was still at Arkham — fudging their data to get the drugs approved the FDA, marketing their drugs as less potent and addictive than they were, encouraging doctors to overprescribe. This was what Elliot had been covering up.

With his point suitably made, the Joker and his clowns left the meat locker, leaving their captives behind with one of the spherical gas canisters Lonnie had gotten his hands on. It began to hiss out a vapor, and not long after the occupants of the meat locker were ravaged by the effects of Jonathan Crane's fear toxin, for all of Gotham to see.

* * *

Harley went to bed after the broadcast finished, too emotionally drained from watching the fall out of these new revelations. This one should have hit close to home considering she used to work for Elliot, but she felt so disconnected from that world now that it hardly phased her.

As she lazed in bed the next morning, she wondered if the Joker wasn't pushing people too far, making them numb to the violence and corruption around them. He could force them to the brink but too far would make them snap back to the center like a rubber band. And, annoyingly, Harley wished she could share this thought with him. Why? Because it was gratifying to be the one to measure him? Just as it was gratifying to be the one to seduce him?

When Harley finally dragged herself out of bed, it was nearing noon, but she made coffee for her and Elijah 1 all the same. This was her third morning in the penthouse, and just like the previous two mornings, the news was already on, the pundits and reporters losing their minds over Elliot Pharmaceuticals' indiscretions, and the Kane family's profiteering off Gotham's addiction crisis. Harley was starting to feel numb from all the outrage.

"Thomas Elliot does not work for Elliot Pharmaceutical, he does not sit on Elliot Pharmaceutical's board, and he does not profit from Elliot Pharmaceutical's outrageous schemes," a publicist was insisting indignantly. "Thomas is a renowned neurosurgeon who just so happens to be the grandson of Elliot Pharmaceutical's founder. It is owned outright by the Kane family."

"Thomas Elliot is also a multi-millionaire trust fund baby who has aunts, uncles, and cousins with the last name 'Kane' sitting on the board of his grandfather's horrifically unethical company!" Steve Lombard from the Gothamite snapped back.

"Thomas has opened his family home to Gotham's poorest citizens in their time of need!" the publicist sputtered.

Harley caught up soon enough. Thomas Elliot, the heir to the Elliot family fortune, had been getting slandered on TV all day, and when the angry mob that was increasing in size found out, they swarmed Gotham City Hospital where he worked, looting and raiding the whole place trying to hunt him down.

In response, Elliot offered to house a few hundred displaced people from the Eastside at his family's palatial estate in the Palisades.

_That's going to go well,_  Harley thought wryly as she sipped her coffee.

It was barely the afternoon, but she was already starting to go stir crazy, so she added some whiskey to her coffee and stood with her head pressed against the glass of the living room's floor to ceiling windows, staring down at the chaos below.

The streets of Midtown were packed with people—all kinds of people—all of them joined together in anger and desperation. Harley imagined the wealthy hiding out in their skyscrapers just as she was now. From where she stood she could almost see into the penthouse at the top of Wayne Tower, and she had no trouble imagining that pompous ass Bruce Wayne was hiding up there with a hoard of Russian ballerinas waiting for the proletariat to be dealt with.

By late afternoon, the pundits and reporters were discussing Gotham's Five Founding Families, and how it was only Wayne who was so far untouched by controversy. They speculated that Wayne Enterprises would be next, but Bruce Wayne was unavailable for comment—shocking,—and speculation ran wild over what the Joker could dig up on him.

Just before sunset, there was a bombing at Dumas Corps' headquarters in Midtown, and just before midnight, there was breaking news that the Elliot Estate in the Palasdaids had been set on fire by looters. The city was on the brink of initiating martial law, and the sky above Midtown was full of helicopters coming and going from the helipads on top of skyscrapers, rescuing the trust fund brigade from their nightmare.

Harley was bored to tears throughout it all and carried on drinking gin and lounging around the honeymoon suite despondently. She attempted to roll a joint with Lonnie's weed, but she wasn't a very practiced hand, and besides, there was nothing to light it with. With that idea shot to hell, Harley examined the pill bottle in Lonnie's drug Tupperware and realized with a start that it was the same potent pain killer Elliot had been pushing.

She continued to turn the bottle over in her hands, one of her shitty plans beginning to take shape, then piled Lonnie's drugs back in the Tupperware container and hid it behind the marble tile.

Before she went to bed, she learned that there had been another document dump, this time, predictably, about Wayne Enterprises. Compared to the others, their crimes weren't quite so heinous. Wayne made cell phones, and it turned out they'd been selling their customers' data to third parties without their explicit consent. Within an hour, the riots in the streets spread to Wayne Tower, and Harley watched from fifty stories up as they looted the building, dragging computers and copy machines out into the street with whatever else they could get their hands on. She didn't know who that mob was or what they were trying to prove anymore, but the Joker had gotten the chaos he wanted.

* * *

Harley woke up late the next morning feeling more like herself than she had in days, and she smiled as she lay in bed going over her plan. It wasn't the best plan, and it required a lot of luck, but she refused to spend a day longer trapped in the honeymoon suite while the city destroyed itself.

She took a shower and redressed in the cleaner pair of silk pajamas, then wiggled aside the loose marble tile under the sink and retrieved Lonnie's drug box. She shook out a handful of the painkillers, double-checking their dosage on the bottle's label before tucking them into the breast pocket of her pajamas, then headed into the kitchen to make coffee.

The television was on, and Elijah 1 was standing at attention in front of the elevator. Harley offered him a mild nod on her way into the kitchen and set about boiling water and measuring out coffee. Using two spoons, she crushed the pills up into a fine powder and stirred them into one of the cups, then returned to the living room and handed that cup to Elijah 1, who accepted it silently just as he had the previous three mornings.

Harley settled into the couch to watch the pundits wail at each other over the Batman abandoning them to the Joker, smirking as she sipped her coffee. Harvey Dent's name got bandied around like it always did, the undeserving hero-worship making Harley roll her eyes as the panel argued over whether the Batman would have saved them from the Joker's second 'Reign of Terror' if the police hadn't been so vitriolically hunting him.

It took about twenty minutes of waiting before Harley heard Elijah clear his throat uncomfortably, and she took one last sip of her coffee before setting the cup aside and standing.

Elijah was leaning against the elevator doors, blinking hard as Harley circled the couch to face him.

"You don't look so good," she observed mildly, folding her arms over her chest and cocking her head to the side. "Drink that coffee too fast?"

Elijah squinted at her like he couldn't see her even though she was no more than ten feet away from him, and then he started to cough and sway until he fell to his knees.

Harley waited patiently for Elijah to fold over so he was on all fours, and she continued to wait as his arms gave out and he collapsed onto his belly, gasping as his limbs grew limp. She sighed and used her bare foot to roll him onto his back before lowering herself down to sit on his chest.

"Don't get any ideas," she joked as she wrapped her hands around his throat and squeezed.

Harley had never strangled a person before, but she figured it couldn't be that hard if the person didn't fight back. Elijah was rapidly losing consciousness, but she doubted he would die from the dose of pills she'd given him alone, though they were doing an admirable job of slowing him down while she tightened her hands around his neck.

His face turned red, and then purple, his lips quivering and his arms and legs twitching weakly. Then finally he grew still, his eyes open but not seeing, and when Harley pressed her thumb to his jugular, there was no movement beneath her finger.

She smiled as she got back up to her feet, freedom nearly within her grasp as she pressed the button for the private elevator and stepped inside. Now came the hard part where she would have to think fast and bluff a whole host of people, but by the time the elevator doors opened, and she stepped out into the underground parking garage, she knew she would be able to do it. Harley was resilient, and as she strode across the parking lot in bare feet, she felt capable of anything.

Most of the cars were gone, and when she reached the exit for the street, she was confronted with two men in military fatigues guarding the exit. They tried to stop her—"Ma'am, ma'am! You really shouldn't leave the building!"—but Harley waved them off and stepped out into the chaos rippling through the streets of Midtown.

It looked like something out of a nightmarish dystopian future. There was garbage everywhere, and a thick haze of smoke hung in the air from the tear gas canisters deployed that morning. A group of people wearing green puffer jackets and gas masks were chanting about climate change while less-well-outfitted people pushed grocery carts full of computers and clothes and all manner of shit they'd stolen. The National Guard appeared to be more interested in guarding the buildings than organizing the people in the street, letting them run wild unless they got too close.

Harley took a full thirty seconds to absorb what she was seeing and again thought that if the Joker pushed them too hard, Gotham would pivot back to the myth of its faux-morality, though for the moment it seemed content to indulge its Id's deepest desires.

A fire engine raced down the street, its wailing sirens and flashing lights reminding Harley that she had somewhere to be. She started up the block, her eyes darting left and right, her body tensed for an attack as she made her way to the resident's entrance of Wayne Tower.

There was a line of both National Guard officers and private security guarding the entrance to the building, its bronze front doors closed and barred.

"Help!" Harley shrieked girlishly as she ran up to the guards. "Oh, please help me! I knew I shouldn't go outside, but I did it anyway!"

"What's your name, miss?" Grunted one of the private security, hoisting up his assault rifle.

"Peaches Kane," Harley gushed, pitching her voice even higher. "Please, can you help me?"

While the private security pounded on the heavy doors, Harley looked up and down the line of officers, keeping her eyes wide and terrified until they landed on a familiar face.

She almost didn't recognize Sly with a National Guard helmet covering his oiled hair, not too mention the lack of his signature leather trench coat, but there was no doubting it was him, and there was certainly no doubting that he recognized her. They stared at each other for a long moment, both wondering if the other would rat them out, and Harley licked her lips as she tried to think fast. Did she get Sly to take her to the Joker, or did she continue with her plan?

Then Sly's eyes darted away from Harley's face and over her shoulder, his face contorting in alarm.

A sharp, pinching pain shot through Harley's neck, and an arm wrapped around her torso, pinning her arms to her sides. She realized there was something in her neck as she opened her mouth to shout, but a wave of blackness rolled over her before she could do anything.

* * *

Bruce Wayne's penthouse was the highest point in the city, which made it the perfect spot to watch the chaos ripping apart the city below. But that wasn't all. From where the Joker stood, he could almost see into the honeymoon suite where Harley was currently imprisoned. He was waiting for a call from Marty, his attention divided between the chaos on the streets and the honeymoon suite's windows, willing Harley to appear there.

The concept of weakness wasn't one the Joker was particularly well acquainted with, but Harley frequently dragged him into uncharted waters. She could look after herself, so it wasn't about her being used as leverage that made this  _thing_  with her a problem. No, it was her  _effect_  on him; that was the  _real_  problem. She was under his skin now. She knew how to push his buttons. Her little meeting with Sofia Falcone revealed she had it in her to make big,  _unexpected_  moves and that she was willing to fuck him over to get what she wanted.

Harley had proved herself to be far more capable than the Joker could have ever imagined when he first sat across from her at Arkham thinking,  _what an amusing weirdo._

With a few days between them—giving him a chance to cool down over her planning to betray him  _right_  on the cusp of  _events-now-in-motion_ —the Joker had come to realize that her ruthlessly efficient nature could be an  _asset_ to him, not a weakness.

Harley was an  _ideas_  person. She understood the world, and she understood people. All of this—what was happening in the streets, what was happening to the little people and the big people alike—Harley had shown the Joker how to do this. _Guide them, s_ he'd said. In his estimation, her value in this regard outweighed any other problems she might present.

The fact that all it took was a whisper in his ear while she stroked his chest to turn him into a purring kitten was one of those problems, but what was life without a little risk?

There was more too.  _Sweet_  was not an obvious way to describe Harley, and she wouldn't agree with it, but sometimes, when she was relaxed and satisfied, she had a way of looking at him that couldn't be described as anything other than downright  _saccharine_. That may have been the  _organic_  version—something the Joker selfishly hoped only he got to see—but she used it as a weapon too, wrapping men around her little finger to do her bidding (Freddy Maroni and his driver), tell her things they shouldn't (Marty), feel like the  _owed_  her something (Bruno, Gordon, the guards at Arkham, the list went on and on). Was it only men, or could she turn it on women too?

Over the last few hectic, sleepless, productive days, the Joker had started thinking maybe it was time to put those calculating instincts and that beguiling sweetness to work.  _Real_  work. Then in moments like this, waiting for the phone to ring and the next step to play out, they could indulge in a little...  _relaxation_ together.

The Joker chewed on his scarred bottom lip as he stared hard at the window across from him, fantasizing about what Harley would do the next time she saw him.

Probably try to kill him. Probably with a blunt object. Harley preferred caving in skulls to knives and guns.

The Joker smiled to himself.

She was so  _funny._

One of the burner phones in his coat began to ring— Bruno, not Marty.

" _What_ ," the Joker grunted, his thoughts still on Harley smashing his skull in with a baseball bat. Or maybe a brick.

"We gotta problem, boss," Bruno sounded strained— _concerned_  even. "Sly saw Harley in Midtown."

The Joker rolled his eyes. Of course. He should have taken bets on how long it would take her to get out of there. He'd been waiting for this since the moment those elevator doors closed, part of him hoping she would fight her way out. Things were running too smoothly, and they could all do with having a cog thrown into the works to keep things interesting.

"Bring her up to the Wayne penthouse," he snapped.

"That ain't all, boss," Bruno said quickly. "Sly says she was taken. Right off the street." He paused here. "By Victor Zsasz."

The Joker ran his tongue over his teeth, digesting this information. Memories and facts about Victor Zsasz flashed before his mind's eye, most prominently the bodies of Victor's victims, or at least what was left of them when he had finished.

He hung up on Bruno.

The solution was obvious. Let Harley take care of herself as she was undoubtedly capable of doing. He didn't need to get involved.

But this was  _Victor_. The Joker knew Victor well enough to know not to underestimate him. Victor was a completely different beast from mob bosses and their thugs. Victor was a genuine  _freak._

And Victor already had her. He would rip her apart, piece by piece,  _dissecting_ her while she was still alive so he could  _liberate_ her.

The Joker snarled in frustration, his hands curling into fists.

_"Fuck_ ," he muttered viciously, spinning away from the window.

* * *

**A/N: Uh oh.**

**So there you have it, finally some answers about what the Joker's been planning and what he's been going through. Was it what you expected?  
**

**Shout out to the Sackler family & Perdu Pharma for inspiring the Kane family & Elliot Pharmaceutical, the Trumps & Kushners for Crowne, and the Koch brothers for Dumas Corps. Not that I'm advocating gassing Perdu Pharma employees with fear toxin or throwing Jared Kushner off a skyscraper, or violence of any kind.**

**Next: In the last chapter of part 2, Harley spends some quality time with Victor Zsasz while the Joker tries to find her.**

**Looking forward to your comments & reviews ;)**


	21. Chapter 21

The Harlequin

21.

* * *

It was the pain that woke Harley up. It felt like her wrists were squeezed in a vice, her arms and shoulders and neck strained and aching, her brain liquified and sloshing around inside her skull.

Slowly, Harley's vision started to clear, her senses returning to her, and she realized she was staring up at her bound hands. Her wrists and forearms were wrapped in duct tape, binding her to an old, bronze chandelier hanging from a cracked ceiling framed with crown molding. A fissure of panic raced through her as she realized  _she_  was hanging from the chandelier, and her feet twitched to life, peddling desperately through open air.

Harley released a shuddering breath, trying to stay calm as she lifted her head to look around. She was in a dark room that seemed likely to be a basement, lit only by a bar of light above a workbench along one wall.

And sitting casually on that workbench were two severed heads.

The heads of Freddi Maroni and his driver Joe Herdberg.

Another tremor of panic, stronger this time, rolled through Harley as she blinked dumbly at the heads, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

She'd liked Joe, and now his lifeless, decomposing face was staring vacantly at her across the room.

Forcing herself to look away, Harley tried to think back to the last thing she remembered. Escaping the penthouse. Dodging protesters and looters and the national guard as she ran down the street to Wayne Tower. Talking to the guards and seeing Sly and then... nothing.

Her neck hurt from dangling limply while she'd been unconscious, but there was an acute pain in her throat too. There had been a needle. She'd been drugged and dragged away.

But by who?

Harley took a few more deep breaths, trying to stop the panic rising inside her like a tidal wave. Panic was not helpful or productive. Whoever had taken her wasn't there now, at least not in the same room. The more she looked around, the more she noticed little details that told her this might be the basement in Freddi Maroni's townhouse. That was something. At least she was still in Gotham. That also meant this wasn't random...

Still breathing deeply, Harley looked back up at the light fixture she was taped to and started kicking her legs, building enough momentum to swing back and forth in an attempt to shake the chandelier free from the ceiling. When it refused to budge, she curled her knees up to her chest, huffing with the effort as she used her abdominals to lift her feet to the light fixture and hooked them through its curved bars. Using her feet as leverage and panting through her teeth, Harley tried to pull hands free, and when that didn't work, she pulled herself up, the muscles in her arms straining as she attempted to get close enough to use her teeth on the tape.

There was a slow creak above her, followed by footsteps echoing across the floorboards, and then a shaft of light appeared on the staircase, partially blocked by a person's large frame as they started slowly down the steps.

Harley remained where she was, curled around the light fixture and trying to gnaw through the tape on her wrists and forearms, only turning to glare at her kidnapper when they were on the bottom step.

He was imposingly tall and bald with a closely cropped goatee, and he was smirking faintly at Harley across the room.

"Hello, little creature," he greeted her in a low growl, moving closer. "Aren't you...  _athletic_."

So far, Harley had been successfully holding the tidal wave of panic at bay, but when he spoke, it began to grow again. She unhooked her feet from the chandelier and lowered herself down so she was hanging, never taking her eyes off him. That was when she noticed he had scratches covering the right side of his neck. Tally marks.

"And who the fuck are you?" Harley demanded after a long stretch of silence where they just stared at each other.

He seemed to find her attitude amusing, his mouth curling up on one side in a disturbing smile. "I am Victor," he told her.

"Ok,  _Victor_ ," Harley snapped, trying to keep her composure as he started to edge closer. "Why did you drug me and tape me to this fucking chandelier?"

She watched as Victor stopped beside the workbench and laid his hand on Freddi's severed head, fingering the hair thoughtfully. Harley steeled herself, realizing she was dealing with someone who was almost assuredly not fully mentally competent.

"Salvatore Maroni wanted to send the Joker a message... through you," Victor said slowly, still petting Freddi's head.

"Sal Maroni is dead," Harley shot back, trying to gauge how close he would have to be for her to kick him in the chest.

"True... but I have gotten to know you, little creature," Victor drawled, cutting through Harley's train of thought. "And as much as I will enjoy seeing how the Joker reacts... this is about you now."

"You've been following me?" Harley asked, her voice wavering.

"You're a fascinating little thing," Victor purred, turning his attention to the workbench beside the severed heads. "And I am so looking forward to liberating you," he added, holding a knife up to the light and examining it.

Harley could feel the blood drain from her face when she saw what else was lying on the bench beside the heads. A pair of pliers. A screwdriver. A scalpel. And most worrying of all, an old saw.

"Liberate me," Harley tried to tap into her anger instead of her fear as she involuntarily began imagining having those tools used on her. "You mean kill me?"

"Oh, little creature," Victor said solemnly, coming closer, but not quite close enough for her to kick him and make it count. "First I will tame you, and then you will be free," he promised her grimly.

Harley's pulse leaped in her throat, her mind racing as she tried to decipher what he was saying. Liberate her. Tame her. She thought back to all the violent inmates she'd interviewed over the years, and the similar phrasing they'd used to describe their victims.

And what they had done to their victims before they killed them.

And what they had done to their victims' bodies once they were dead.

Harley's lips quivered as she tried to recalibrate.

"Why are  _they_  here?" She asked, nodding at the heads.

"To watch, of course," Victor replied with a smile. "It seemed a shame to waste them."

_Keepsakes_ , Harley thought, goosebumps rising up on her skin.

"You said you want to see how the Joker reacts," she pivoted, needing more information. "You know him? Personally?"

"We used to be... colleagues," Victor said slyly, moving closer until he was within arms reach. "A friendly rivalry, you might say."

"Colleagues," Harley repeated coldly. Even when faced with a sadistic murderer who kept his victims' heads, she found it easy to be pissed off at the Joker. First for locking her up, now for his former 'colleague' using her to get a reaction out of him.

"I find his attachment to you... _fascinating_ ," Victor continued, moving even closer. "Perhaps I will share your parts with him when we are finished."

He wasn't quite close enough, but Harley curled her knees up to her chest and kicked out at him anyway. Her feet connected with his chest, but Victor caught one of her ankles and threw it aside, making her whole body twist away. Then he lunged forward before Harley could right herself, the knife glinting in his hand.

Harley screamed, mostly in surprise, when the knife sank into her stomach just below her ribs. Pain more acute than anything she'd felt in her life made her body convulse as she shrieked and swore mindlessly, the knife still stuck inside her.

Victor twisted the knife, making Harley wail horribly. Her head fell forward, and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to master the pain and breathe through it, but she couldn't stop the small, terrible sobs that were bubbling up her throat and jumping past her lips.

"No more athletics for you, little creature," Victor purred, finally pulling the knife free.

Harley felt him run his hand over her hair, but she was too absorbed in pain to care. She panted and huffed, vaguely aware of Victor leaving as a sob caught in her throat.

* * *

There was a city-wide curfew in place, but Sofia Falcone had enough private security and police on her payroll to come and go as she pleased. She would have rather stayed home with Vito and the children than go to a pointless meeting at the Iceberg Lounge, but Penguin had insisted, so Sofia and Yuri made themselves available. No one could get ahold of Marty O'Riley, but it was his part of the city that was currently submerged in a cancerous dust cloud of death, a gift from the Joker.

Maroni was finally dead, but now they had a host of other problems, none of which could be solved until the chaos on the streets died down, and God only knew when or even  _if_  the Joker would allow that to happen.

Vito wanted to leave. He insisted this violence wasn't something the children should see, and with Penguin taking charge, they no longer had a reason to stay in Gotham. But Sofia disagreed. Their children needed to see the bleakness and desperation of the world if they were to thrive in it, just as Sophia's father had showed her and her brothers. You were never too young to understand how the world worked.

More importantly, Sofia believed this chaos would pass, and Penguin would find himself at the bottom of the food chain again. She believed Harley Quinn would deliver what she promised, and she was willing to wait for it.

The elevator reached the penthouse, the brass doors sliding apart to reveal a darkened reception room and an imposing set of double doors. But the lights didn't automatically turn on as they were supposed to, and Sofia stopped short of leaving the elevator, her ears perking up.

Her guard realized something was wrong and drew his weapon.

"No," Sofia said sharply, raising her arm to block him. "Go back to the ground floor and wait there," she instructed, stepping out of the elevator into the darkened room.

Her guard obediently did as he was told, and when the elevator doors closed again, the reception room was submerged in partial darkness, only the dim light from a small Tiffany lamp offering illumination.

"Hiya,  _Sofie_ ," a familiar, nasal voice greeted her disdainfully.

Sofia turned to face the Joker. He was casually leaning against the wall beside the elevator, wearing dark trousers and a white shirt beneath a heavy black overcoat with the collar up around his face. Sofia hadn't seen the Joker without the paint since his face had been mutilated, and she was surprised how much like his old self he looked without it.

"Joker," she said, a smile slipping onto her lips. He wasn't there to kill her, not like this. If he wanted to kill her, he would have made a big production out of it like he did with all the others. No, he  _wanted_  something. "What are you doing here?"

The Joker ran his tongue over his butchered bottom lip, his eyes rolling up to the ceiling thoughtfully.

"I... need a  _favor,"_  he said reluctantly, his mouth curving into an ironic little smile.

"A favor?" Sofia raised one eyebrow. "What could you possibly want from me?"

"I need to know where I can find Victor Zsasz these days," he said, meeting her gaze across the dimly lit room, his expression grim.

"Victor Zsasz?" Sofia asked incredulously. Zsasz had been one of her father's most vicious attack dogs, used exclusively when a strong message needed to be sent. If the Joker was coming to her, he must have been desperate and out of options.

Then Sofia's eyes widened with understanding, his dilemma painfully obvious.

"I see," she said softly. "So he's taken your Harley Quinn, has he?"

"Seems that way," the Joker replied coolly, with an almost-convincing pretense of ambivalence.

Sofia thought it over quickly; she certainly did not want to see Harley Quinn butchered and murdered (in that order) by Zsasz, but the Joker didn't need to know that.

"I'll see what I can do," she agreed, smirking cruelly. "But what will you do for me?"

The Joker's scowled at her. "Whaddya want?" He snapped impatiently.

Sofia stepped closer, immensely enjoying wielding this power over him. She wouldn't overplay her hand—he was far too dangerous for that—but that didn't mean she wouldn't take what pleasure she could from his predicament.

"Is this love, Joker?" She taunted him, her smirk growing with each step she took toward him. "My goodness. How...  _unexpected._ "

His face darkened, his jaw tensing as he glowered at her silently.

How _very_  unexpected indeed.

"What... do you want," he growled, and Sofia felt a shiver roll up her spine, though whether it was from fear or pleasure, she didn't know.

"It's very simple," she sneered, lifting her chin. "I want you to  _beg_ _._ "

The Joker licked his lips, his eyes narrowing as he wrestled with her request.

"Please," he snarled at length.

"Come now,  _Pretty Boy_ ," Sofia's lip curled as she used the patronizing old nickname that never quite stuck. "You can beg better than that."

There was a prolonged pause where the Joker ran his tongue over his teeth, his eyes rolling over Sofia, and she suspected he was thinking about how he would like to kill her. Then he abruptly dropped down onto his knees, glaring up at her hatefully.

_"Please_ ," he growled, the word sounding like it was being ripped out of him against his will.

Sofia sighed happily as she gazed down at the Joker kneeling before her. "Now that's more like it," she purred.

* * *

Harley didn't know how long she'd been hanging there, but she knew she had lost a lot of blood. She tried to stay awake, unwilling to let her last moments on earth be spent hanging from a chandelier with only two severed heads to keep her company, but she couldn't stop herself from blacking out forever. Consciousness came and went in waves, and she knew soon it would be permanent. One of these times, she would blackout, and that would be it. She wouldn't wake up again.

The front of her pajamas were soaked with blood. It was dripping down her body, clinging to her limp toes before landing in an ever-widening puddle on the floor beneath her. The pain almost became bearable, if only because she had no other choice but to live with it. The pressing issue was how she would get out of this situation, which seemed impossible. She couldn't see a way out, and she couldn't envision the Joker or anyone else saving her from it either.

It was down to her. But she could hardly stay awake.

Hours must have passed, and Harley continued to fade in and out, the trauma of being stabbed bleeding into hopelessness until she heard Victor's footsteps on the stairs. She lifted her head to see him standing there, smirking at her, and then she felt incredibly... _angry._

"Nothing to say, little creature?" Victor smirked, creeping toward her. "We haven't even started yet. I'm disappointed."

Harley licked her lips, indignation cutting through the lethargy of her mind as she closed her eyes to center herself.

"Who abused you, Victor," she demanded, her voice weak. "Your father? Stepfather? An uncle? I'm seeing...  _classic_  signs of abuse at an early age. Something that disrupted your development."

"Ah, that's more like it," Victor purred. "I didn't think a knife in the belly would slow you down so much."

"I'm just trying to help you live your best life, Victor," Harley croaked, glaring at him from beneath her hair.

"You  _are_  funny," he observed, his lip curling into a sneer that might also have been a smile. "No wonder the Joker likes you."

"When did you first realize no woman would  _ever_  want to be with you?" Harley spat, trying a different tack, a different avenue to diagnosis. "That you had to tie them up and  _tame them_  to get them to spend time with you."

He didn't like that. Harley saw his face darken, and she knew she'd found the thread to pull.

"Shit,  _that'_ s what it is?" Harley laughed weakly. "You chop women up because you can't get a date?"

Victor took an unsteady step forward, his nostrils flaring dangerously, but Harley was on a roll now.

"So where does  _liberation_  come into it," she continued, her eyelids drooping, unconsciousness threatening to sweep in. "You hurt women to punish them for not wanting to fuck you—that's the most important part, I get it. But then what, you have to justify their deaths as liberation? Is it guilt or shame, or are you just...  _delusional_."

"That's not how it works," Victor growled. "They need me to free them."

"Uh huh, that sounds about right," Harley continued drolly. "I've seen it  _so_  many times. Delusions brought on by shame, because underneath all these metaphors about taming and freeing your victims, your subconscious still knows you're just a lonely, angry,  _pathetic_  man who can't get laid."

"You don't know anything," Victor narrowed his eyes, taking another step toward her.

"I'm guessing  _mommy_  was a bitch who emasculated you every chance she got, right?" Harley laughed weakly. "She was probably your first victim, huh?"

" _Stop!"_  Victor snarled, baring his teeth.

"Ugh,  _God,"_  Harley scoffed, her head lolling back. "You're the most  _boring_  kind of psychopath there is, you know that? Just a bargain variety  _psycho._  There's nothing  _special_  about you except you've managed to monetize your pathology." Then her eyes snapped open, knowing exactly what button she wanted to push. "You're  _nothing_  compared to the Joker."

Victor's nostrils flared again, his chest and shoulders heaving as he stepped closer.

"I get it now, Victor," Harley sighed, finding strength in taunting him. "You're  _jealous_  of him. Because he doesn't have to tie me up to be with me. I  _want_ him. I want him  _all_ the time. Ohhhh, Victor. I gotta tell you. It's the best sex I've ever had in my _life_. He makes me—"

Victor rushed forward, grabbing a handful of Harley's hair and yanking her head back. She made a strangled sound and bit down on her bottom lip, trying not to cry out as the movement aggravated the stab wound beneath her ribs.

"Let's take away some of your woman's weapons and see if that helps you," Victor hissed, releasing her hair and taking a step back. He held up a pair of needle-nose pliers for her to see, then used them to point at her groin. "Shall we take the clitoris first?" He growled, sending a violent tremor running across Harley's shoulders as she imagined what he was suggesting. He pointed at her chest with the pliers. "A nipple, perhaps?"

Harley exhaled a shaky breath, fear peeking around the edges of anger and pain, fear of being maimed outstripping her fear of death.

"Or perhaps a woman's most basic defense," Victor snarled, grabbing one of Harley's hands. "Her _claws_."

Harley wasn't entirely sure what he meant, but then he took hold of her little finger, his vice-like grip relentless as he wedged the pliers beneath her fingernail and started to pry it off. She gasped, her entire body tensing as she held back an undignified cry. Pain raced across her hand and up her arm, making her light-headed, and she released a watery sob that quickly morphed into a scream.

* * *

Ed's diner was on the west side of Downtown and faced the harbor, its patrons a collection of men in uniform and construction gear, wolfing down plates of eggs and bacon before they headed out to work.

Victor looked around the diner, searching for the familiar face he was supposed to meet there. He wasn't truly convinced the Joker would show—with a face as recognizable as his, how could he possibly go out in public without attracting attention? Victor lingered by the entrance until a flustered-looking waitress wearing a teal uniform and a white apron insisted he take a seat. Her curly red hair caught Victor's attention briefly, but he quickly lost interest in her and slunk to the back of the diner to fold himself into a booth, his eyes sweeping over the customers.

The waitress deposited a cup of coffee on the table in front of him before she ran off again, and Victor wrapped his hands around the mug, his eyes settling on the diner's entrance. He waited for ten minutes, staring hard at the door as people came and went, and growing increasingly annoyed that  _he_  was the one waiting when he had the Joker's little creature tied up at his mercy. The Joker should have been waiting for  _him._

A man wearing a dark coat slid into the booth across from him, his greasy, sandy-brown hair flopping forward over one eye. The first few buttons of his shirt were undone like a stockbroker on the golf course, and he wore a pair of dark sunglasses that were slipping down his nose like the asshole villain from an 80s teen movie. The last thing Victor noticed were the scars, one curling neatly up his right cheek, the left more mangled and knotted.

"Hiya Victor," the Joker rasped, tilting his sunglasses down to peer at Victor over the tops of the shades.

Victor narrowed his eyes. He had forgotten how  _annoying_  he found the Joker. His ability to blend in, just like his ability to shift from monster to man like he was changing suits, had always bothered Victor, who was less adept at hiding himself. More irritating, the scars weren't as horrible as Victor had hoped they would be. On television and in the news they looked disgusting when he painted them red. In reality, he was just as pretty as he'd ever been, just imperfect now.

Before the scars, women who didn't know what the Joker was capable of used to throw themselves at him, and he had always rubbed it in Victor's face. But things were different now, and Victor reminded himself that he had the Joker's little creature locked up in a basement at his disposal.

"Hello, Pretty Boy," Victor sneered.

The Joker sighed and pulled his sunglasses off, tucking them into the breast pocket of his jacket before he laced his ungloved hands together on top of the table. His fingers were faintly smudged with white and red paint.

"Listen, Victor," he said, leaning in. "I like to think we're  _pals_ , huh? We've known each other a long time. Let's not stop bein' pals over something like this."

"Something like this?" Victor grinned, baring his teeth. "You mean your little blonde?"

"Well,  _yeah_ ," the Joker shrugged like he couldn't have cared less. Then he tipped his chin down, so he was looking up at Victor. "Say you tell me where she is... I'll owe you one."

" _Owe_  me one," Victor hummed, trying to imagine a universe where he would give up the creature for a favor from the Joker. "I don't think so."

The Joker pursed his lips thoughtfully and brushed imaginary dust off the chrome table. "What is it you want, Victor?"

"Only to tame her," Victor smirked, watching the Joker prod the inside of his cheek with his tongue as he contemplated his next move. "And  _liberate_  her."

"She still alive?" the Joker asked at length, raising his eyebrows appraisingly. "In one...  _piece_?"

Victor's smirk continued to grow, the sweetness of having the Joker in the palm of his hand almost intoxicating. And all because of a woman. It was  _so_  unexpected.

"Mostly," he grinned, reaching into the pocket of his jacket and gathering up the claws he'd taken from the creature. He deposited them on the table in front of the Joker. "I have declawed your pussy cat for you."

The Joker stared down at the fragments of fingernails, painted dark maroon with flecks of dried blood clinging to their jagged corners. Victor couldn't decipher what he was thinking; if those fingernails and the pain his little blonde would have experienced having them removed was affecting him. The pain of others' was not something the Joker cared about unless it served his purposes; was it possible this creature was different for him?

Victor's smirk grew even wider, and when the Joker looked up at him, Victor was practically beaming.

"Maybe when I am done with her," Victor said slowly, taking profound pleasure in the darkness brewing in the Joker's face. "I will send you her cunt... since we're  _pals_."

The Joker's eyes narrowed as he pushed the fingernails aside, his tongue darting out to scratch over the scar splitting his bottom lip. Then his expression morphed from anger to ambivalence, the tension leaving his face entirely as he flopped back to lounge carelessly against the red vinyl seat.

"Well, uh, that'd be swell of you, Victor," he smirked lazily, draping one arm along the back of the booth. "I prefer her warm and wet personally, but to each his own... Who am  _I_  to judge."

Victor scowled, despising the Joker both for his ability to find things Victor found difficult so easy, and also his relationship with the creature.

"What it is about her that has done this to you?" He sneered. "You care about no one and nothing, and yet by coming here, you show me she means something to you. You would never have shown your fleshy underbelly before."

The Joker hummed thoughtfully, tonguing the scars inside of his cheek as he rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and then back to Victor.

"You mean aside from the warm and wet part?" He cocked an eyebrow at Victor, who scowled at him. "She's funny," he shrugged carelessly. "Smart. Easy on the eyes.  _Great_  in the sack."

"I don't believe you," Victor snarled, and the Joker's eyebrow raised again.

"I don't particularly give a fuck  _what_  you believe, Victor," he said conversationally, folding his arms on top of the table. "Did ya just come here to give me her fingernails and uh... do your best to get me worked up or is there an actual  _reason_  you agreed to meet, huh?"

Victor licked his lips, the Joker's unwavering gaze on him making him nervous, reminding Victor of an old fear of his: that the Joker could read his mind.

He tried to shake it off, reminding himself of his purpose there. The Joker liked playing games, so Victor would give him one.

"You wouldn't have this problem if you could keep track of her," Victor sneered. "All those nice young men she spends her evenings speaking to."

"Uh huh," the Joker said flatly, still leaning forward like he was waiting for Victor to come to the point.

"Let's just say, some of those nice young men have been..." Victor smiled to himself and looked out the window, imagining the people he'd left in the room with the creature. "Keeping an eye on her for me."

"Oh yeah?" the Joker hadn't looked away from him yet, and Victor felt another shiver of unease that he was reading his mind, right that second, seeing right through Victor. But even if he was, Victor reminded himself, all he would learn is how truly powerless he was now that his creature was at Victor's disposal. "Those nice young men happen to be alive still?" The Joker asked, narrowing his eyes.

One corner of Victor's mouth twitched up, telling the Joker all he needed to know.

"Great," the Joker stood swiftly, pulling his sunglasses from his pocket and popping them back on his face. "Look, this was great, Victor. Good to see ya and all but uh, I'm kinda in the middle of this... takin' over the city thing right now."

Victor's mouth flattened into a disappointed line.

"Busy times, I'm sure you understand," the Joker tipped his head down to look at Victor over the tops of his shades again. "But let's make a bet, huh? You kill her before I find her, I'll owe you a dollar. Sound good?"

"A dollar?" Victor's smirk was back again, and he stared up at the Joker, understanding that he was agreeing to the game.

"I'll take that bet," Victor sneered.

* * *

Harley was dehydrated, and so light-headed she wasn't sure if she was awake or dreaming. Her hands were in agony, her nail beds sliced open where Victor had wedged a knife beneath her fingernails to make the process of removing them easier for him. It had taken at least an hour, and Harley had screamed herself hoarse throughout it. This was torture. Real torture of a medieval variety, and though Victor didn't ask her any questions, she would have told him anything he wanted to know to make him stop.

Then he left her again, but she didn't know for how long. She didn't want him to come back, because if he did, he would be taking those pliers to another part of her body. He would remove her 'parts' piece by piece until she bled to death.  _Liberating_  her. But if he never came back she would die there, perhaps not bleeding to death, as her wound seemed to have clotted, but how long could a person hang from their wrists without food or water before they died?

But Victor would eventually come back to remove another 'part' of her, and dwelling on this thought made Harley furious, though it was a washed-out version of the rage she knew she should have felt.

She let her head fall back so she could stare at the ceiling, eyeballing the cracks around the light fixture she was taped to. It took her a few minutes to realize the cracks had become longer since the last time she'd looked, and even longer than the very first time she'd examined the ceiling. The plaster was buckling under her weight, but who knew how long it would be before it gave in completely. She could be dead by then.

Harley swallowed thickly, the sudden realization that she had a chance to escape making something wake up inside her. A sense of hope that she hadn't been able to find yet.

She flexed her feet and started to swing her legs as best she could. The stab wound burned every time she activated her abdominal muscles, but she fought through it, bucking her hips until she started to build enough momentum to swing. Her hands and arms protested, but she kept kicking, pushing herself harder and harder until she saw one of the cracks in the ceiling bleed into the others. She kept swinging, her breath coming in short, pained gasps as the chandelier began to tremble and then finally, the whole fixture came free along with a large piece of the ceiling.

Harley landed flat on her back, her arms still attached to the chandelier over her head, the shock of hitting the floor racing through her whole body. Her breath was coming fast as she willed herself to get up, but it took footsteps on the staircase to jolt her out of the lingering fog that had settled over her. Victor's voice cut through the fog too, but Harley didn't pay attention to what he said. She was preparing herself, breathing evenly through her nose and getting ready to fight.

Victor appeared above her, smirking as he said something asinine about her needing to go on a diet and bent down to pick her up.

Harley swung the light fixture at his head, snarling as it connected with his skull, stunning him and knocking him back. He fell on his ass as Harley pulled herself up to her knees, stifling a moan as her body threatened to give out on her. Victor was already recovering though, and that was all she needed to know to push herself forward. She swung the light fixture at his knees, knocking him down again, and then she threw herself on top of him, smashing the bronzed metal down on his head until his eyes rolled back in his head.

He was just unconscious, not dead, but unconscious was good enough for Harley.

She used the workbench to pull herself to her feet, Freddi Maroni's severed head tumbling sideways and splattering on the floor. Once she was standing, she tried to pick up the scalpel on the workbench, her exposed nailbeds making her grit her teeth.

Despite her flimsy grip on the knife, Harley stabbed at the duct tape wrapped around her wrist, thoughtlessly cutting into her arm too. She let out a ragged sob before starting her other arm, her teeth clenching as she struggled with the tape and the light fixture, finally ridding herself of them. Then she staggered across the room, stepping over Victor's unconscious body toward the stairs, freedom feeling so close and yet so far away.

Getting up the stairs with a stab wound was hard, and Harley ended up dragging herself up the last few steps, her fear of Victor waking up the only thing that got her back to her feet once she reached the top, gasping and whimpering pitifully. She forced herself forward— _go, go, go_ —through Freddi Maroni's living room, only stopping to fight with the front door. Her hands were slick with blood from cutting herself, making her fingers slip as she pawed desperately at the door handle.

Freedom was just on the other side of that door, and Harley's eyes filled with tears as she imagined Victor coming up behind her, pulling her back down into the basement at this crucial moment.

The door opened, and she fell outside, the freezing wind stinging her skin. Harley gasped in a mouthful of cold air, light-headedness washing over her again in a wave, and then she blacked out.

* * *

The Joker's eyes were burning with exhaustion. He had been running on micro-naps for the past five days, but in the twenty-four hours since Bruno informed him Victor fucking Zsasz had kidnaped Harley, there hadn't been time for sleep or food or anything else. There was only the relentless, ever-present need to get Harley away from Victor before she lost any of her more significant 'parts.'

First, the Joker kicked down the door of every asshole he could find who might know where Victor was hiding, including a trip down to the sewers to all of Victor's old haunts. He hadn't expected it to be that easy, and with no leads to go on he'd found himself on his knees, begging Sofia Falcone for help.

That still stung a little bit.

During the six hours between his leaving Sofia's penthouse and getting her call later that morning, the Joker continued to fruitlessly hunt for Victor, turning up nothing on his own. So when he sat across from Victor at Ed's diner, it had taken every ounce of self-restraint the Joker possessed not to blow Victor's fucking  _brains_  out for being such an irritating piece of shit. If the Joker did that, Harley would remain wherever she was and possibly starve to death if he never found her. Instead, he let Victor talk, each word he spoke more exasperating and annoying than the last, poking holes in his rapidly thinning self-control.

The Joker  _hated_  self-control. It was so...  _unnatural_.

There were two things that the Joker could say about Victor Zsasz. One was that he was a truly sick and depraved individual with a remarkably effective skill set. The other was that he was a fucking moron and didn't realize it. Victor wanted to play a game by giving the Joker clues, the idea being that he would be forced to race against the clock to find Harley before Victor cut off too many pieces of her. It was juvenile, and his 'clues' were transparent and obvious.

The nice young man was obviously Freddi Maroni's driver, so the Joker tracked down his house. When no one was there, he pivoted to Maroni's bastard's house, feeling  _less_  sure he was on the right track. Now he was out front of that house, wishing he had a cigarette as he parked the car across the street and stepped out into freshly fallen snow. It was a nice, quiet street Uptown, lined with townhouses for the upper-middle class. The houses mostly looked abandoned, though some had clearly been fortified by their owners to ward off looters taking advantage of the chaos spreading through the city.

The Joker licked his bottom lip reflexively as he considered Freddi Maroni's townhouse when suddenly, the front door flew open.

He watched Harley fly out onto the front porch, wearing torn pajamas stained almost black with blood, her arms and hands slick and shining red.

She made it two steps before her eyes rolled up in her head and she collapsed, tumbling bonelessly down the front steps of the townhouse.

Without thinking, the Joker bolted across the street and flung himself down beside her, pulling her head into his lap and patting her blood-streaked face, saying her name. He looked her over quickly, taking note of her hands and her stomach, and then looked up at the house she had just fallen out of.

Victor was in there. Probably still alive unless Harley had managed to kill him, but from the looks of her, he doubted it.

The Joker ground his teeth, unfamiliar feelings he couldn't name racing through him, making his heart pound, making him  _hesitate_. He was torn between the overpowering urge to go into the house and find out if Victor was alive so he could kill him slowly, and the knowledge that he needed to get Harley somewhere safe. That meant fleeing, turning tail and running away like a coward, denying himself the fight he wanted to have with Victor. All things that fundamentally disgusted the Joker.

But it also meant keeping Harley alive.

Snarling in frustration, he gathered up Harley's limp body in his arms and loped back across the street to the car.

* * *

The last thing Harley remembered was being blinded by sunlight after a day spent in a glorified dungeon. Then there had just been blackness, sweeping her away.

Her eyelids felt heavy, and she knew she was drugged again, but this time instead of lethargy, Harley felt like she was floating, her body weightless like it was gliding through space. She forced her eyes open so she could find out where she was; if Victor was standing over her with his pliers. But she was in a room she didn't recognize, tucked up in a double bed covered in a dark blue duvet. There was a skylight in the slanted ceiling over her head, snow gathering in the corner, an overcast sky covering the sun.

Relief surged through her, making Harley suck in a shaky breath as she looked down at her hands. They were wrapped in bandages, the constant pain she'd been in before dissipating to mild discomfort thanks to the drugs. She couldn't even feel the IV in her arm, a slim clear tube connected to a bag of fluids hanging over the slatted headboard behind her.

"Hey, Harley."

Harley rolled her head to the side, blinking sluggishly. Bruno was sitting in a stiff-backed wooden chair beside the bed, looking concerned though he tried to hide it. He didn't look good, his skin sallow with dark circles under his eyes, and a cut over his eyebrow like he'd been in a fight. He looked like he'd lost weight since the last time she'd seen him.

"What happened," Harley croaked, her voice weak from lack of use.

Bruno sighed and moved his chair closer to the bed, clasping his hands in front of him as he pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"J called me," he said at length. "Told me he found ya and you were bleeding bad. I made a few stops to pick up supplies and met you two here. You weren't comin' around but to be honest, I was glad for it." He looked up to meet her eye. "I gave ya some morphine then we got a bag of blood in ya and sewed you up. I seen a lot of stab wounds, so I don't think he got anything but muscle. You've been sleepin' almost a whole day."

Harley stared at Bruno, a little shocked that he was being so forthright in answering her question. Usually, it was all 'don't ask questions' and cryptic wisps of information that left her guessing. Maybe this time he thought it better to be direct when she was injured and drugged.

"You sewed me up?" Harley asked quietly, probing the knife wound beneath her ribs. She could feel the knotted line of thread and puckered skin when she touched it, but she could only the pressure, not the pain itself.

"J did," Bruno nodded. "I figure you may wanna change out of that," he inclined his head to her, and Harley realized then that she was wearing a lilac shirt with a hideous octagon pattern. It was the Joker's shirt, and Harley despised herself for having to fight the impulse to press her face against the collar to see if it smelled like him. "Maybe you can clean yourself up, and that'll help you feel better. I'll find ya somethin' to wear, okay?"

Harley caught Bruno's eye, knowing she should appreciate how nice he was being to her. But she was still angry, even if for the moment it was regulated beneath the haze of morphine and exhaustion.

"Where is he?" She asked, her voice low and steady.

Bruno sighed, his eyes slanting sideways like he'd been anticipating that question.

"He's cleanin' some shit up," he finally said, looking at her again. There was something guilty in his expression. "Some uh... some things didn't pan out after we found out Victor took ya."

"You mean whatever else he had planned," Harley said coldly. "I got in the way of his plans, and he's pissed."

"Well," Bruno sighed again, struggling to find the right words to explain that the Joker blamed her for getting kidnapped and tortured and ruining his big evil plan.

"Don't," Harley scowled. "Don't even bother. He locked me up like I'm his  _property_  to just do with as he pleases."

"Harley," Bruno's fleshy forehead creased into a frown. "I ain't never seen him like this before, alright? You got plenty to be mad at, but I ain't  _never_  seen him so..."

"I don't care," Harley hissed, cutting Bruno off before he could say anything that would make her feel  _special_  or  _cared for_  by the man who had been manipulating her for his own entertainment for months.

Bruno made a face and switched tactics, picking up an orange prescription bottle of the bedside table. "We're outta morphine, but I got ya some of the good stuff off Lonnie," he said, offering her the bottle with a placating smile. "Why dontcha take one of these and get some more rest, huh?"

"No," Harley ground her teeth. She was thrilled to be away from Victor and no longer hanging by her wrists with the threat of having her nipples pulled off with pliers, but now she was in a different kind of prison. Her body was trapped in the bed, and drugs were only going to keep her there longer. She needed to get out and to do that she needed to remain clear-headed.

She closed her eyes, letting Bruno know that they were done talking, and soon she fell back asleep.

* * *

When Harley next woke up, the skylight was dark and more snow had gathered on the glass. There were voices out in the hallway—the Joker irate and snapping while Bruno's voice was softer, maybe trying to reason with him. Harley couldn't make out what they were saying, but her body tensed as she prepared herself for coming face to face with him. If he was pissed off at her for ruining his plans, that was fine with her. She'd had a fight brewing inside her for almost a full week now, and she was ready to have it out with him.

The morphine had worn off significantly since she'd spoken to Bruno. It wasn't the constant agony that had marked her time in the basement, but Harley could feel her torn nail beds pressed against the gauze, and the stitches beneath her ribs. The cuts on her arms stung too, not quite painful but undoubtedly uncomfortable.

But her head was clearer, and when the bedroom door burst open, and the Joker stormed in, Harley was glad for it. He was wearing black suit trousers and a white shirt beneath the purple overcoat. His face wasn't painted, but he looked terrible, his eyes hollow and bloodshot, his face pale like he was sick or hadn't slept in days.

After a week of being furious with him, Harley had thought it would be easy to hate him when she saw him in person. But now he was right here in front of her, and a traiteurs whisper of hope fluttered through her. Hope that maybe he looked terrible because he was worried about her, that he would be relieved she was safe and treat her accordingly.

"Happy Black Friday," he sneered, stopping at the foot of the bed. "You _certainly_  know how to get in the fuckin' way,  _don't_  you."

The hope fizzled out of Harley, and she hardened herself to him. She drew from her physical pain and the humiliation he'd inflicted upon her, and her lip curled into a sneer of her own.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice raspy. "Are you mad at me for getting tortured by a psychotic murderer with a fetish for  _dissecting_ women?"

The Joker rolled his eyes like she was being unreasonable and folded his arms over his chest.

"You shouldn't have left the fucking penthouse," he snapped irritably. " _That's_  on you."

"That's on me?" Harley's voice rose a few octaves, anger boiling away inside her. "Just like it's on me that Victor tortured me to send  _you_  a message? Huh?"

"If you'd done what you're told you'd still have your  _fingernails_ ," the Joker growled, his voice lowering dangerously.

"And who the fuck are you to tell me what to do!" Harley shouted, her stomach burning as her diaphragm tensed around her wound. But she didn't care; the pain made her feel stronger. "Who do you think you are? My keeper? I don't belong to you!"

"You're playin' outta your league, Harley," the Joker snarled outright, his eyes narrowing threateningly.

If he thought she would keep her mouth shut because he growled at her, he didn't know her at all. Harley was vibrating with indignation and fury, and if he thought she would just cower in fear of him, he was sorely mistaken.

_"No,"_  she hissed, rage coursing through her. "You think I'm out of my league because you're a controlling, psychopathic piece of shit! I was stupid enough to think there was more to you, even though I should have known that  _all_  of this was just a goddamn  _lie!_  But now I know for sure that I've just been wasting my fucking time with you!"

The Joker scowled and bit down on the inside of his cheek like he was restraining himself from saying something. For a moment, Harley thought he would try to defend himself or disagree and tell her she was wrong about him, and it hadn't all been a lie. But she knew she was projecting. There was no way he would ever say that. It would just be one more lie anyway.

Still, he didn't say anything. He just seethed at her across the room as she glared hatefully back at him. They had reached an impasse.

"Is he dead?" Harley asked quietly.

"Victor?" The Joker's face lit up, a cruel smirk taking shape on his mouth. "Of course not. I  _love_  Victor. I might take him for a beer later to thank him for takin' you  _down_  a few pegs. Maybe he'll give me some advice on how to keep you in  _line_."

Harley's eyes widened, horrified that she had ever believed the Joker was anything more than a nihilistic monster, that she could have ever have wanted to be with a  _thing_  like him. He could have been toying with her, but Harley realized that for the Joker to kill Victor as an act of vengeance, he would need to care about her in some small way, and his brain wasn't capable of that. He didn't have the gray matter to hold up that kind of emotional intelligence. He never would.

"Keep me in line. You mean  _tame_  me!" Harley spat, leaning forward even though it hurt to move. Her voice grew louder and louder until she was nearly screaming. "If you think I'm staying in this bed or  _anywhere_  near you a moment longer than I have to,  _THEN YOU HAVE LOST YOUR FUCKING MIND!"_

The Joker's face contorted in a way she'd never seen it move before. His nostrils flared, and his eyes widened, and he blinked rapidly without saying anything. Shocked or  _offended_  came to mind, or maybe something more complicated than that, but if he was surprised by what she'd said he really had lost his damn mind.

He planted his hands on the foot of the bed and bent forward to glare at her.

"You're stayin'  _right_  here," he snarled, then spun around and stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him so hard the walls rattled.

* * *

Bruno listened to them argue, his heart sinking as Harley screamed hoarsely and the Joker snapped cruel things back at her.

Then the Joker slammed the door shut on her and was stomping down the short hall toward the stairs, his face more furious than Bruno had ever seen it before. He'd  _never_  seen him like this. Not just pissed off—and there was a lot to be pissed off about—but like he was losing control, and steadily growing more desperate as the situation with Harley deteriorated.

"J," Bruno said as he blew past him.

The Joker had a knife against Bruno's throat before he could blink, his eyes wild.

"Whaddya wanna say, Bruno, huh?" He raged. "You wanna tell me how to be _nicer_  to her? Huh? Buy her some fuckin' flowers?"

"Boss, I know you're worked up," Bruno kept his voice low and calm, his heart beating faster as the Joker scowled up at him. "That's fine. Just don't do anything rash, okay? That's my advice."

"Your  _advice._ She's got you wrapped around her little fuckin' finger just like everyone else," the Joker hissed, stepping back. "Keep an eye on her, or I'll cut ya up into little pieces like Victor did to your wife and your fuckin' brat."

He loped down the stairs two at a time, and the front door slammed shut with a bang.

* * *

Harley couldn't sleep for a long time after the Joker left, she was too worked up from their fight, obsessively replaying what each of them had said over and over in her head. Her fury was mainly coming from resentment, humiliation and self-loathing that she'd put herself in this position to begin with, but there was no denying the hollow disappointment of losing something that  _mattered_  was lingering too. Romantic people would probably call that feeling 'heartbreak.'

Her eyes were tingling, her face threatening to collapse into a sob as she sat in bed staring at the closed door the Joker had disappeared behind. She didn't mind sobbing when she was being tortured—that felt reasonable—but she  _refused_  to cry over him. Harley hasn't cried in  _years._ Not since she was a child. So she sat with her jaw clenched, her body shaking as she held it inside, swallowing a feeling she didn't want to acknowledge as grief.

Grieving a relationship that had been a figment of her imagination. A lie concocted by a psychopath.

Eventually, Harley fell asleep, and when she woke up again, Bruno was there with a fresh set of pajamas, which she declined to put on. Her body was aching now, the morphine wearing off entirely as she refused the pills waiting for her on the bedside table too.

She was able to get up and use the bathroom at least, Bruno hovering nearby all the while, though whether it was to help her if she fell or to make sure she didn't escape again, Harley didn't know.

It was unspoken, but both of them heard the Joker say, " _You're stayin' right here."_  Harley could only interpret that sentiment one way— that she had exchanged one prison for yet another. First the honeymoon suite, then Freddi's basement, now this room wherever it was.

What Bruno made of it, Harley didn't know for sure, but she knew he wouldn't be letting her go if his master told him to make sure she stayed put.

She slept again, and when she woke up, she was alone and hurting bad, but she also felt stronger, her head clear, her determination to be in charge of her life and out from under the Joker's thumb renewed.

Harley estimated that she'd been at this new safe house for three days. Three days felt like long enough. If she'd been able to take out Victor and escape in the state she'd been in then, she could get past Bruno and leave this place despite being weak and nowhere near healed.

That was fine. Harley didn't mind a little pain in exchange for freedom.

Bruno came in then, offering her a breakfast burrito which Harley nearly inhaled without tasting it. Then she gulped down a glass of water before settling back into the pillows, making sure not to look too much like she was capable of leaving on her own, something she was not yet sure of herself.

"Where is he?" She asked Bruno quietly, her voice tight.

"He's got some more fires to put out," Bruno explained awkwardly, lowering himself down into the stiff-backed chair beside the bed. What he didn't say was that these fires were a result of Harley distracting the Joker from whatever he'd had up his sleeve after the Wayne Enterprises leaks.

"What's happening out there?" Harley asked.

Bruno sighed. "They cleared out Midtown, stopped all the rioters and looters somehow. It's only been a few days, but I hear people are starting to come back to the city. There's still a curfew in place, but things are settlin' down."

Harley nodded slowly. "Do you feel like it was all for not?"

"Nah," Bruno shook his head. "That's gonna stick with people. I even think, maybe..." He trailed off.

"Maybe you were pushing too hard," Harley filled in. She swallowed a lump that had formed in her throat, her eyes suddenly stinging again. "I wanted to tell him that."

Bruno's face crumpled, and he shook his head again. "You're both fuckin' idiots, you know that?"

Harley bristled. "What are you talking about?"

"I mean you're you and he's him," he flung his hands up in exasperation. "What're you expecting, something normal? That ain't never gonna happen. Right now you're both so caught up in bein' offended and pissed off at each other, makin' this thing a big fucking mess when you could just accept it is what it is and move on, and be fuckin' happy together."

"Be  _happy_ together? _"_  Harley's mouth almost fell open. "He's been manipulating me for months! He doesn't give a shit about me, he only cares about being _amused_  by me. And what happens when I stop amusing him? Huh? What then?"

"Stop feelin' sorry for yourself, Harley," Bruno shook his head sadly. "Yer acting like you're surprised the Joker isn't good at talkin' about his feelings. Ya think about that at all?"

"No," Harley spat bitterly, grief welling up in her throat.

"Well, ya should. You don't even realize that he listens to you, do ya? That he fuckin' respects you."

Harley laughed incredulously, the idea of being  _respected_  by the Joker too absurd for her to comprehend. She kept laughing even though it made her stomach ache, shaking her head.

Bruno's words tested the wall she'd built around herself, the one that kept out all unhelpful, sympathetic thoughts about the Joker. The only thoughts she allowed in were the hateful, bitter ones to remind herself that he was a defective human who would only use her until he got her killed.

She needed to leave, sooner rather than later, before Bruno snuck through her defensive wall and she started fantasizing about staying. It would be easy to give up her self-righteous anger and stay, and she knew the Joker was more than capable of pivoting away from the sneering, cruel monster he'd been the day before, back to the complicated, intensely private man who told her she made him feel like a caveman. But that wasn't sustainable. That wasn't the  _truth._

_Fuck him._

Harley knew what she needed to do.

"I need to use the bathroom," she said quickly, and Bruno stood to help her out of bed and out into the hall.

Harley turned on the faucet under the guise of covering the sounds of her relieving herself, then sat down on the toilet while Bruno stood in the doorway, looking away to give her some privacy but notably not closing the door.

He would keep her there as long as the Joker wanted him to. It was obvious. And it made Harley angry enough that she found it the strength she needed to do the only thing she could.

She lurched off the toilet seat, ignoring the pain stabbing through her stomach as she grabbed the towel rail across from her and yanked it off the wall. The water running in the sink wasn't loud enough to cover the sound of the railing coming free from the wall, but before Bruno had turned all the way around to see what was happening Harley swung the pole at his head.

It was just a cheap piece of metal, but it did the job of surprising Bruno enough that he stumbled back into the hall, clutching his face.

Harley dove after him, faster than she thought she would be able to move with her heart pounding in her throat. She grabbed the gun holstered under his armpit and thumbed off the safety, leveling it at Bruno's head and pulling the trigger before he had a chance to recover from her assault.

There was a spray of blood and brains on the wall behind Bruno as his body collapsed to the floor, and Harley numbly fell on top of him, searching his pockets for his keys with shaking hands. Her whole body was trembling, and she couldn't bring herself to look at Bruno's lifeless face as her hands closed around the keys, and she sat back on her heels trying to catch her breath.

The front door slammed open, and feet were pounding on the stairs. Harley tried to stand but fell sideways against the wall instead, her grip on the gun firm despite her shaking limbs.

The Joker appeared at the top of the stairs, his gun drawn. His eyes darted between Harley and Bruno's body and then back to Harley again as she pulled herself to her feet. She leaned heavily against the wall, her legs feeling like they were about to give out as she pointed Bruno's gun at the Joker, and he raised his in turn, his eyes widening.

They stood there staring at each other, their weapons drawn in a standoff. His expression was completely closed off, giving nothing away, while Harley's lips were quivering and tears welled up in her eyes, almost blinding her.

"You're a terrible shot," the Joker reminded her quietly, adjusting his grip on his gun. The same gun he'd shared with her multiple times.  _'Just hold down the trigger, and you'll hit something eventually.'_

Unadulterated rage spun through Harley like a cyclone as she judged this familiar little quip to be nothing more than a demeaning attempt to emotionally manipulate her into backing down. Her jaw clenched, and she pulled the trigger twice.

The first bullet hit the railing but the second hit the Joker in the shoulder. He grunted in surprise and swayed on the spot, his free hand flying up to cover the gunshot wound as blood began to bloom dark purple on the lapel of his coat.

But he didn't fall, so Harley shot him again, her face crumpling. This time she hit him in the thigh, and his leg gave out, sending him tumbling back down the stairs.

Harley held her breath to tamp down the sob trapped in her throat as she forced herself to stagger away from the wall to the top of the stairs. Her cheeks were wet with tears, but she managed to hold back the sob until she saw the Joker halfway down the staircase on his side, not moving, the carpet beneath him slowly darkening with his blood.

Harley doubted he was dead yet, but she had to get out of there. She curled her hand into a fist around the keys and tightened her grip on the gun, then leaned heavily against the railing as she started edging down the staircase. She was just about to step past the Joker when he lifted his head and looked up at her, his eyes blazing with something she couldn't identify. His hand shot up and closed around her ankle, yanking Harley off balance and sending her crashing down the stairs past him.

Searing pain ripped through Harley's stomach as her stitches tore open and fresh blood began to pour down her belly. The pain made her light-headed, and she gasped pitifully as she forced herself up to her hands and knees.

The Joker was already moving, his face unnaturally blank as he pulled himself up to sitting, one hand still pressed to the gunshot wound at his shoulder.

He grabbed the railing and started to get to his feet, but Harley raised her gun before he could stand fully. She shot at him again, a horrible sob tearing out of her as tears streamed down her cheeks. This time she hit him in the chest, and he stopped short, swaying as he looked down at the blossom of scarlet rapidly spreading across the front of his white shirt. Then he collapsed back on the stairs, and he stopped moving.

Harley was sobbing outright now. She hauled herself to her feet, the pain in her body blocked out by the waves of emotion crashing over her as she forced herself to stand and turn away from the Joker's body, and continue out the front door.

Bruno's Audi was parked on the snow-dusted street, and Harley pressed a hand to her newly bleeding stomach as she stumbled toward it. She realized then that this whole time they'd been at Joe's apartment Downtown, which only made her cry harder, her face hot and sticky as she struggled with the keys and threw herself into the car.

She started the engine and closed her bandaged hands around the wheel, sobs wracking her body as she tried to find the gas peddle with her feet.

She cried the entire twenty-minute drive Uptown, grief and regret nearly paralyzing her, tears almost blinding her.

By the time Harley pulled into the alley behind the Iceberg Lounge the car was swerving dangerously. Blood had pooled on the seat beneath her, blood loss nudging her close to unconsciousness again. Her eyelids were drooping, and she unsuccessfully tried to stomp down on the break before the car rolled into a dumpster. The airbag deployed, and without a seatbelt on, Harley's face collided with it hard, making her ears ring and her vision blacken around the edges.

She heard a door slam and feet stomping and someone shouting, "Boss!"

Harley could feel the airbag deflating beneath her cheek, and she heard the car door open beside her, and then she succumbed to blackness.

* * *

_End Part 2_

**A/N: Eeeeek. Everybody's dead!**

**Or are they?**

**Part three is a slightly different beast from one and two. It's the third (and final) act, so things have to get crazy before they can get resolved. And we get to know a couple of other canon characters.**

**Next: Harley goes to work for Penguin.**

**Please review!**


	22. Chapter 22

The Harlequin

Part 3 - Relief

22.

* * *

When Harley woke up, she was in a clean white room, wearing a hospital gown and tucked up under a pale blue waffle-weave blanket. She was alone, with only the slow beep of a heart monitor to keep her company. Her body felt weightless, and none of her injuries hurt, which meant she was on morphine again. Her hands and arms were freshly bandaged, and there was an IV in her arm, and when she wiggled her legs, she could feel she had a catheter too.

The door in the corner of the room opened, and an older woman dressed in nurse's scrubs came in, smiling cheerfully.

"You're awake," she chirped. "How are you feeling, Harley?"

"Where am I?" Harley murmured .

"A safe place," the nurse said kindly. "You've been unconscious for three days."

Harley watched warily and asked nothing as the nurse changed the bandage on her stomach, which had been re-stitched with absorbable medical stitches, and removed her catheter, then helped her to and from the bathroom before tucking her back up in the bed again.

"How's your pain?" the nurse smiled as Harley stared back at her blankly.

"I can't feel anything," Harley said softly, though that wasn't strictly true. Physically she felt nothing, but there was a terrible sinking feeling in her chest that made her eyes sting, and when the nurse left her alone Harley stared numbly at the closed door, refusing to give in to the tears burning behind her eyes.

* * *

The nurse came and went, giving Harley meals, changing her bandages and helping her to the bathroom, all of which made it easier to keep track of time.

After two days, Lucy came to visit, looking very out of place in pink cowboy boots and a white puffer jacket lined with magenta fur.

"Hey, Harley," she beamed as she came to stand beside the bed, and Harley glared back at her. "Aw, you're not happy to see me?" Lucy pretended to pout.

"I want to talk to Penguin," Harley said quietly, her voice containing only a fraction of the authority she'd hoped it would.

"The boss is pretty worried about ya, Harley," Lucy sighed, toying with the tubes connecting the fluid bag to Harley's arm. "He's got a lot of questions."

Harley shut her eyes. Of course, she would have to relive this, probably more than once. "What do you want to know?"

Lucy's eyebrows jumped, surprised that Harley would so easily comply, and maybe a little disappointed too.

"You wanna tell me what happened to you?" She folded her arms over her chest, peering down at Harley warily, and Harley knew she would have to get past Lucy if she wanted to get to Penguin. She was too tired and depressed to fight with Lucy over this, and she wouldn't have been able to make a convincing case in her current state. There was no point in resisting.

"I killed the Joker," Harley said woodenly, looking up at Lucy. "We had a disagreement over Victor Zsasz torturing me."

Lucy's eyes widened, and she quickly looked away, struggling to cover her shock.

"No one's seen him in a few days," Lucy said gently, an irritating note of  _compassion_  in her voice. She lifted her eyes to Harley's again. "That's a pretty big deal, Harley... killing the Joker."

Harley shrugged dispassionately. Her eyes were starting to sting again.

"Well, okay," Lucy said uncertainty. "I'll tell the boss."

"Tell him I want to talk to him," Harley said coldly, staring at the door instead of looking at Lucy. "We need to discuss favors."

* * *

Penguin came to see her the next day, and strangely, he came bearing a balloon with 'Get Well Soon' printed across its foil surface.

Harley watched him limp across the room, the balloon jerking through the air behind him as he glared at her and struggled to pull the visitor's chair up to the side of her bed. Once he was settled, he shoved the balloon at her and folded his arms high over his chest, his mouth puckering unhappily.

"Hello, Harley," Penguin said tightly. "I hear you killed the Joker and you want to speak to me about favors."

Harley closed her eyes, trying to collect herself. When she opened them Penguin was still glaring at her, his lip curled in an ugly sneer.

"You still owe me a favor," she said slowly, trying not to antagonize him.

Penguin scoffed and gestured to the room around them. "I would suggest saving your life and providing you with a safe place to recover would qualify as payment of that favor, wouldn't you?"

"That's one favor," Harley said coldly. "You owe me two."

" _Two_ ," Penguin spat. "I would suggest—"

"I need a job, Oswald," Harley cut him off. "Wouldn't you rather I worked for you than someone else?"

He sat back in his seat, glaring thoughtfully at her like she was a puzzle he was trying to pick apart. It occurred to Harley that she pulled this reaction from many men— the Joker, Penguin, Blakely, Gordon, even Bruce Wayne.

"You're dangerous," Penguin said, stating a fact that wasn't up for discussion. "You murdered your..." he clicked his tongue impatiently, searching for the word to describe her relationship with the Joker. "How could I  _possibly_  trust you?"

He had a point, and Harley didn't have the energy to argue with him, so she used what she suspected Victor Zsasz might call one of her 'women's tricks.' She gave in to the ever-present burning behind her eyes, allowing a few tears to roll freely down her cheek as she stared numbly at Penguin, watching him react to her calculated show of vulnerability.

 _"Fine_ ," he cringed like he found seeing her cry deeply disturbing. "I'll find something for you. But for God's sake, Harley, pull yourself together. This is  _unbecoming_  on you."

When he left, Harley laid back and stared at the ceiling tiles above her. The sinking feeling in her chest had evolved into an ever-widening black hole. She was still crying, she realized belatedly, her cheeks sticky and hot with tears, a sob building in her throat. Just one, she told herself, as her shoulders shook and her chest constricted in a sob, but a second quickly followed, and then a third, and they didn't stop coming until Harley was too exhausted to cry anymore.

* * *

She remained at the 'safe place' for another week, which she suspected was longer than she would have been kept at a hospital to recover from a stab wound. The nurse said she needed to finish a course of antibiotics to make sure infection didn't set in before they let her go. Where she would go once she was released, Harley hadn't the faintest idea, and though she despised having to rely on Penguin, she knew he was the only option she had aside from turning herself over to Gordon. That she was even considering turning herself in only made her more depressed.

When it was time to leave the 'safe place,' Harley could get around on her own reasonably well, going to the bathroom and showering alone instead of being subjected to sponge baths from the nurse as she had at the beginning. The stitches keeping her wound shut dissolved, leaving an angry red line below her ribs that was tender but generally healed, as were her arms and fingers, though her lack of fingernails made doing even small tasks difficult. They were already starting to grow back.

She was given a pair of burgundy silk pajamas and suede slippers with gold brocade to wear, Penguin's taste painfully evident in the opulent styling, but she changed into them without a fuss. There was a long black coat with a tie around the waist too—more flair and drama of the Penguin variety—but when she got outside, she was glad for it. It was mid-December now, and Gotham was covered in a thick layer of snow that soaked through her slippers as she was escorted to a black town car by two silent guards in suits.

At least she assumed they were her guards. Harley still didn't know what would happen to her next, but for once, she wasn't worried about controlling the situation. She had no control anymore.

The guards took her to the Iceberg Lounge, where Lucy greeted her. It was still early, and Lucy looked like she hadn't slept yet, wearing her on-duty uniform of a black cocktail dress and heels, which Harley thought she probably found constraining considering her affinity for pink fur and bedazzled denim.

Lucy showed Harley upstairs, where she learned there were a handful of suites Carmine Falcone and his lieutenants used to keep their mistresses back when the Iceberg Lounge was their primary hangout. Harley was given a large room decorated in more of the gothic-lux style Penguin preferred, and she instantly felt like she was in a dungeon instead of a bedroom.

Later that night, Harley was summoned to Penguin's office for a 'chat' that was really a job interview. Harley was too depressed and tired to argue with him, so she agreed to his terms without putting up a struggle and thanked him for his help.

She couldn't even find it in herself to resent him.

They made a deal. Now that Penguin was leading the mob—or as he painted himself, the 'King of Gotham'—he had less time to run the club, which was his pride and joy. Harley would take over managing the Iceberg Lounge for him. She would greet the guests and make sure they had everything they needed, and most importantly keep her ears open for gossip and report back to Penguin. She would also keep track of the money the club took in, doing basic sums to decide how much dirty money they could launder alongside the legitimate cash.

"How are you with numbers?" Penguin narrowed his eyes. There was a bottle of wine on the desk between them, and Harley had already refilled her glass twice.

"I'm good with spreadsheets," she shrugged. "Clinical research was my primary field."

"Clinical research?" Penguin repeated, bewildered. "A far cry from terrorist and gangster moll."

"And now I'm a bartender and bookkeeper," Harley shrugged, refilling her glass and knocking back half of it. "It's a funny world out there, Oswald."

"I need you to be my eyes and ears, Harley," Penguin hunched forward on his elbows, watching her drain the rest of her wine. "I need you to be my representative. Can you do that?"

Harley got to her feet and grabbed the bottle of wine to refill her glass for the fourth time.

"You know I can," she said stoically.

* * *

In the morning, an older woman came to take Harley's measurements, ostensibly so Penguin could dress Harley the way he liked. Later that afternoon a new wardrobe of form-fitting black dresses and expensive high heels arrived, confirming this theory. Harley knew Penguin was attempting to mold her in the image he wanted—sophisticated, hyper-stylised, and obviously on his team—but she wasn't inclined to argue with him over it, not even bothering to complain when a second woman came to style her hair into a glamorously absurd bouffant that evening.

Harley's position in Penguin's circle was tenuous at best, but she was too depressed to come up with a creative alternative. There was also the mildly niggling knowledge that Victor Zsasz was still out there, and that she had every right to hunt him down and kill him as soon as she was physically able. But in her current state of mind it just seemed... too much. The whole experience of being kidnapped and tortured paled in comparison to what had come next, and Harley couldn't find the wrath she knew she should have felt toward Zsasz, and realizing that only made the whole situation worse.

That night, Harley had her first shift as manager of the Iceberg Lounge, spending a majority of the evening at the bar drinking gin martinis while Lucy and Louis shot her dirty looks and did her job for her. The next day, hungover and running on only a few hours' sleep, Harley counted the money they'd taken in at the bar and on the door in cash and credit card payments, then doubled the cash amount to wash the money Penguin needed to get into the bank.

It had been less than three weeks since the Joker's second 'Reign of Terror,' which had expunged most of the city's socialites, meaning the club was significantly less busy than usual. But by Christmas business had picked up enough that Harley actually had to work, and by New Year's Eve, the likes of Bobby Kane and Ivania Dumas were back, drinking champagne and dancing the night away to nostalgic ragtime tunes.

Harley greeted socialites and gangsters alike with a cheery smile, a modified version of the patient smile she'd learned to plaster on at Arkham. No one recognized her because they only knew the faces of Harley Quinn and Dr Quinzel. With her blonde hair piled high in various quaffs requiring generous amounts of hairspray, and heavy black eye makeup paired with nude lipstick, Harley was once again able to disappear into a new role. This one was boring, but it kept her busy, and she floated through December and January doing what she was told and allowing herself to become Penguin's puppet.

She was drinking too much, a gin martini always in her hand as she pried gossip out of the club's patrons and reported back to Penguin. But the longer she remained a loyal and submissive employee, the more he came to trust her. Penguin gave Harley a key to his office and eventually began confiding in her— _bitching_  to her—about his struggles with laundering the mob's money now that nearly all their moneymen were out of business.

"We can pull more in through the club," Harley told him one night, tossing back what remained of her martini.

"Not nearly enough," Penguin complained, shooting her a furtive look. "How much more?"

"Probably a couple hundred thousand a week at least," Harley shrugged, prying off a false eyelash that had been plaguing her all night.

"We have a few hundred  _million_  to get in the bank," Penguin sighed, rubbing his eyes.

"Is Sofia working on anything?" Harley asked, and Penguin made a face.

"She says she's talking to a real estate developer in Metropolis but..." he shot Harley another paranoid look. "I don't think I can trust her."

"I think you can," Harley countered, though it was a lie. She thought back to her conversation with Sofia almost two months earlier. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

"We'll see," Penguin sniffed.

* * *

A week later, Harley was alternating between arguing with Lucy, who was complaining that Harley was drinking the bar dry, and making small talk with a couple of Russian thugs who'd been drinking at the club lately. Harley went to the bar to get them another round of drinks, hoping to get the thugs drunk enough that they'd confirm Penguin's suspicions that Yuri was skimming when she came face to face with Sofia Falcone.

"Harley?" Sofia looked genuinely shocked to see her, her hooded eyes darting from Harley's elaborately styled hair to the tray of drinks in her hand. Sofia shot her fat husband Vito a meaningful look, and he scampered off obediently. "What are you doing here?" She demanded.

"I work here," Harley shrugged, plucking the martini she'd made for herself off the tray and taking a sip. Seeing Sofia brought back a whole host of miserable memories, and she wasn't eager to let the encounter drag on longer than it had to. "Penguin's my boss now."

"Your boss?" Sofia's eyes widened as she watched Harley swallow another mouthful of gin. "My God, what happened to you?"

"Let's see," Harley said sarcastically. "I got tortured by Victor Zsasz, I killed the Joker, I almost died, and I had to beg Penguin for a job so I wouldn't end up on the street or in jail." She took another sip of her drink and swayed a little, already well on her way to being drunk.

Sofia put her hand on Harley's arm, her hooded eyes showing concern that Harley  _almost_  found touching instead of patronizing.

"You asked me if I believed in you once," Sofia said gently. "And I said I did. Why the hell are you working for anyone aside from yourself?"

"What else am I gonna do," Harley snapped and shrugged off Sofia's hand. "I have to work."

* * *

Seeing Sofia reminded Harley of those last few days with Joker, those days  _before_  everything went sideways, which made her both melancholic and pissed off. She missed him, that was impossible to deny, but she reminded herself that he'd used her, manipulated her, and would have killed her if she hadn't killed him first.

That didn't make it any easier to forget about him.

But Sofia also reminded Harley of the strength she'd proven herself to possess. She'd killed dangerous men—including the Joker—and she'd been prepared to make a power move that would have made Sofia the 'Queen.' Harley wasn't in a hurry to make a power grab now, but as January drew to a close, she grew increasingly bored of spending her evenings managing the Iceberg Lounge, which she rarely left since she lived upstairs and worked downstairs.

She started training in her room, using her body weight to get her strength and agility back up, and she pestered Penguin about giving her a different job.

"I'm going stir crazy," she complained to him one night after the club closed. "Lucy can manage the club. Come on, Oswald, you know I'm more useful than this."

"What do you suggest?" He rolled his eyes, exasperated.

"Is there anyone who requires...  _motivation_?" Harley lifted an eyebrow. "I'm good at that."

Penguin eventually agreed, giving her a gun and partnering her up with a thug called Johnny. Harley and Johnny spent most of their time on duty in a shiny black BMW, running errands around Gotham. Mostly they were collecting 'taxes' from the smaller gangs and families who fell under Penguin's protection and using those 'taxes' to pay off corrupt cops and bring new ones into the fold. Harley estimated Penguin owned almost a third of the GCPD, a point driven home one night when she and Johnny met up with the two detectives who had interviewed her at Arkham the year before, Detectives Bullock and Li.

"Oh _, shit_ ," Bullock sputtered when he saw Harley climb out of the BMW, its headlights casting shadows down the snowy alleyway they'd agreed to meet in.

"Detective Bullock," Harley acknowledged him flatly, tossing a duffle bag in the snow between them. "Detective Li. Thank you  _both_  for your continued service."

She started to turn around, the BMW already purring to life when Li spoke up.

"So you work for Penguin now, huh?" Li asked, sounding  _too_  interested, and Harley slowly turned around to face him. "That's a pretty big change from the Joker," he observed.

Harley narrowed her eyes at Li, knowing he was fishing for information. He was doing a poor job of trying to look innocent while Bullock's baggy eyes darted between them, bewildered.

"How long have you been working for Penguin?" Harley asked Li mildly, her hand discretely slipping into the folds of her coat to wrap around the new gun holstered at her side.

"About a month," Li said, lifting his chin defiantly.

Any self-respecting crooked cop would have been smart enough to know this was a conversation to be nervous about, one where he would be expected to prove his loyalty. Harley remembered when Bullock and Li came to her office at Arkham. Li had been overeager and overbearing, suspicious, and looking for clues everywhere. Li was a good cop.

Harley pulled her gun on Li, making both he and Bullock jump back in surprise, sputtering protests about their loyalty. Harley ignored Bullock, backing Li up against the alley wall and pressing the barrel of her gun to his forehead.

"Did Gordon put you up to this?" she asked, narrowing her eyes as Johnny climbed out of the car, wanting to know what was going on. "Did he?" Harley demanded, forcing Li's head back against the bricks with her gun.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Li snapped, wincing.

Harley pistol-whipped him across the face, making Li cry out as his head snapped to the side, but before he could recover she kneed him in the balls. Li yelped hoarsely as he doubled over, looking like he was going to fall when Harley grabbed the front of his coat and forced him back up against the wall.

"Was this Gordon's idea?" She demanded over Li's pained gasps. "Or did you go to him?"

"I went to him!" Li pleaded, and Harley slammed the butt of her gun into his nose. There was a  _crunch_  as it broke, and she felt blood splatter across her cheek. He was getting too heavy for her to hold up, so she let him tumble down to the snowy concrete, keeping her gun trained on him as he landed on his hands and knees.

"I don't believe you," she said coolly, using her stiletto heel to nudge him onto his back. "How many of you are working for us and Gordon?"

"I don't know," Li howled through his hands, trying to protect his face. "At least ten, I think!"

"What have you told him?" Harley snapped, and when he didn't answer, she kicked him in the ribs. "What'd you tell him Li? This will go a lot fucking faster if you tell me!"

"Harley," Johnny warned her, but she ignored him. She wasn't going to learn anything further from Li.

She turned around to find Bullock. He was hovering behind Johnny as he watched her attack his partner with wide, wary eyes. Harley met his gaze as she lifted her foot over Li's neck, then stomped down hard, her stiletto sinking into his throat.

"Jesus!" Bullock cried out as Li began to choke and convulse on the ground.

"Take the money," Harley instructed Bullock, her voice ice cold. "Your cut and his. Find out which of Gordon's men are snitching and what they've told him."

There was a horrible sucking sound when she pulled her heel out of Li's throat. Harley glanced down at him briefly, watching him gurgle and clutch his throat before turning her attention to Johnny.

"Put him in the trunk," she ordered, ignored the resentful glare Johnny shot her. Then she walked back to Bullock, who had shouldered the duffle bag of money, his weathered face anxious and conflicted.

"Listen," Harley said, softening both her voice and her expression. She smoothed a hand over the bouffant her hair had been shellacked into, making sure it was in place after exerting herself over Li. "I remember you from Arkham. I know you're not stupid and you know I'm not stupid either. Right?"

"Yeah," Bullock agreed warily, a defiant note in his voice. "Stupid probably isn't the word I'd use to describe you," he added caustically, making Harley chuckle.

"So just be honest with me," Harley gave him a smile. "Be loyal to me, and we'll take care of you. Gordon can't win this fight. You know that, right?"

"Aw,  _shit_ _,"_  Bullock groaned, running a hand over the graying stubble covering the lower half of his face. He shot Harley a long look that came off as reluctant, but Harley knew it was really submission. She patted him on one grizzled cheek, her smile widening.

"Chin up, Detective Bullock," she grinned. "You've just made a  _very_  good friend."

* * *

Harley and Johnny disposed of Li's body in the harbor, tying a cinderblock to his leg to make sure he'd sink to the bottom.

Johnny apparently did not appreciate being ordered around by Harley, and once they got back to the club, he complained to Penguin that she was a loose cannon and impulsively killed one of their crooked cops. Harley could see what was really going on; Johnny was afraid of her.

Harley waited for Penguin to finish ranting and raving about her going 'El Chapo' on Li while Johnny, Louis and Lucy watched, all of them looking pleased that Harley was getting knocked off her high horse. Once Penguin finished, Harley folded her arms over her chest and lifted an eyebrow.

"Gordon has flipped some of our cop friends," she explained, shooting her detractors an unimpressed look. "Johnny forgot to mention that Li was snitching."

"How the hell would you know that?" Johnny scoffed, but Penguin hushed him.

"Everyone out!" he snapped, his eyes on Harley, and after a beat the others filed out of the office, shooting Harley dirty looks which she could happily say she didn't give two shits about.

Penguin sat behind his desk and poured them both a glass of wine. Harley sat as well, accepting the wine but not drinking it. She was still buzzing with adrenaline from killing Li. It was the most fun she'd had in months. Not because she took pleasure in taking life, but Harley did enjoy a good fight, even if Li hadn't put up much of one. But this wasn't about having some fun and killing Li. This was about a larger altercation with Gordon, and she was ready to take him on.

"Well?" Penguin snapped. "How could you possibly know Li was snitching?"

Harley rolled her eyes. "I spent six years talking to pathological liars and murderers every day. I know when someone is telling me the truth and when they have an ulterior motive." She set her wine on the desk and sat back in her chair, regarding Penguin cooly. "Then I hit him in the face, and he admitted to snitching."

"What else did he say?" Penguin ran a hand over his mouth anxiously.

"He said at least ten cops are working with Gordon. I think it has to be more," Harley said slowly. "I spoke to Detective Bullock. He's going to do some research for us."

"How do you know Bullock won't turn on us?" Penguin blustered, and when Harley lifted one eyebrow, suggesting he already knew the answer, he huffed indignantly. " _Fine._  What are we going to do?"

"Gordon did this before," Harley said thoughtfully. "He flipped cops working for Maroni and had them slip radiated bills into the money they were laundering. That's how Dent was taking out their moneymen."

"How do  _you_  know that!?" Penguin demanded incredulously.

"I know a lot of things," Harley replied evasively, unable to stop herself from smirking. "Which is why it's a good thing I work for you."

"Yes, well," Penguin drained his glass, clearly on edge after learning he had more problems on his hands than he realized. "I'm entrusting you to take care of this, Harley," he shot her a significant look.

"You can count on me, boss," Harley deadpanned.

* * *

And Harley did take care of it, efficiently weeding out the cops Gordon had flipped and the ones who had taken bribes on his instructions. Those who couldn't be trusted were tied to cinder blocks and left to sink to the bottom of Gotham Harbor, those who needed ' _motivation'_  were given ' _motivation,'_  and those who were especially helpful were rewarded. Harley was rewarded too. She was rewarded with Penguin's confidence and freedom. She started sitting in on meetings with his lieutenants, contributing when she had something helpful to add.

Within a month Penguin came to control almost two-thirds of the GCPD thanks to Harley's efforts, and business was booming. The Russians were bringing in vast quantities of drugs from their friends in Mexico and Columbia, and the Irish were selling it faster than they could cut it.

The money was flowing in, which raised new problems for Penguin's mob.

First and foremost, someone was skimming off the top, and Harley was the one who got to deal with an increasingly paranoid Penguin.

"I'm making them rich, but they're fucking me over anyway!" He raged, slapping the laptop sitting open on his desk to the floor.

Harley sat with her arms and legs crossed, patiently watching Penguin pace around the office, his limp slowing him down.

"It's the Russians—I know it's the fucking Russians!" He continued, shaking his fists at the ceiling dramatically. "Yuri has  _never_  respected me."

Harley sighed and rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. "I'll take care of it," she said, getting to her feet.

Apparently, this was what Penguin had been waiting to hear. He flopped down behind his desk like his rage had drained him and flapped a hand at her.

"Yes, yes," he agreed, distractedly. "Do whatever you need to."

Harley recruited Fidget, one of the club's bouncers whom she found to be more agreeable and obedient than the others, as well as Willie, who was as big as a house even if he did complain too much, and for solidarity's sake, she brought Penguin's tongueless bodyguard Louis too. Together they started knocking on doors that very night, threatening and bribing associates from the bottom of the food chain to the top, narrowing down the list of potential skimmers.

A few nights later they arrived at Grin and Bare It with more than a dozen leads pointing them to the Irish mob as the source of the skimming.

Harley's stilettos crunched through the gravel parking lot beside the club, Willie, Fidget and Louis looming behind her. Memories from that parking lot skittered across her mind's eye, specifically one tryst in the back of her car with a particular theatrical terrorist, but she pushed the thought aside. She needed to concentrate.

The club was closed for the night for their meeting. Marty stood near the bar with his four lieutenants, one of whom was Harley's old sparring partner Ralphie. Harley kept her expression closed off as she and her boys squared off with Marty and his boys, confrontation heavy in the air between them.

"Evening, gentlemen," Harley said cooly, her eyes sweeping up and down the line of Irish thugs.

Marty scowled bitterly at Harley, just as he had every other time they'd been in the same room since she started working for Penguin. She could understand his anger—she'd betrayed and killed his friend, after all—but he was extra pissed off tonight because Harley knew Marty was the one skimming, and Marty knew there was no way she wouldn't have figured it out.

"I'll tell ya right now," Marty snapped. "None of us is fuckin' skimmin'."

"Great," Harley said flatly. "Just show us your books, and we'll be on our way."

Ralphie dropped a cardboard box on top of the bar and stepped aside so Louis could peer inside. He made a face and pulled out a fistful of loose paper covered in untidy scrawl, shooting Harley an unimpressed look.

"Very twenty-first century of you," Harley said drolly, her eyes sliding up and down the line of Marty's lieutenants again, landing on a scrawny one covered in tattoos whose name she remembered was something like Bobo. "Fidget, Willie," she snapped, pointing to the man. "That one."

They stepped forward obediently, grabbing Bobo while Marty and his remaining boys protested and began drawing their weapons. Louis and Harley pulled their guns first, making the Irish boys scowl and sway back with their hands up as Fidget and Willie pushed Bobo up against the wall, Willie punching him once to subdue him.

Harley sent Marty a meaningful look she hoped he'd understand, but the way he was glaring at her told her he didn't so she redirected her attention to Bobo.

"It's Bobo, right?" She asked, sidling up to him. "Or is it Bob-o? I heard it both ways from your friends in South Channel... and your friends in the Bowery... and your friends right here in the Cauldron too. All of them had fascinating stories about  _you._ "

"Yer a fuckin' cunt!" Bobo spat furtively.

"Probably," Harley agreed, tucking her gun back in its holster. She considered Bobo's bleeding face for a moment, then pulled back her fist and punched him in the mouth, making his head snap to the side.

"That's enough, Harley!" Marty shouted behind them, as Bobo spat out a mouthful of blood.

Harley ignored Marty, grabbing a fistful of Bobo's scraggly red hair as she pulled a knife with a serrated blade from the inner pocket of her coat. She dug her fingers into Bobo's cheek, holding him in place as she pushed the knife into the corner of his mouth, pulling his cheek out to the side.

"You stole from Penguin and you didn't even try to hide it," Harley said calmly, speaking to Marty even though her eyes were on Bobo. "That was stupid."

Bobo looked like he was going to say something—possibly rat Marty out—so Harley tightened her grip on his face and flipped the blade over, its serrated edge digging into his cheek. Then she cut him, sawing through the flesh from the corner of his mouth to his cheekbone. Blood spilled down over her hands, making her grip on the knife slip as Bobo screamed and convulsed, trying desperately to escape. Fidget and Willie held him fast as Harley cut the other side of his face to match, ignoring the blood soaking the sleeves of her coat and the spatter that hit her neck while Marty and his boys curses and threatened her.

Harley stepped back when she'd finished. Bobo wouldn't be able to rat Marty out now.

"Take him to Penguin," she barked, wiping her knife on her coat before she turned back to Marty.

He was staring at her, his face contorting with conflicting emotions, not doing an outstanding job of covering his surprise that she hadn't let him take the fall for his skimming.

"Get a fucking accountant or at least a computer, so this doesn't happen again," Harley snapped. "And please be  _smarter._ "

She sent Marty another meaningful look and this time it landed. He sucked in a breath through his nose, something grateful flashing in his eyes as Harley spun away from him and stomped out of the club with Louis on her heels.

When she got back to the Iceberg Lounge, Penguin was rapturous that they'd solved their skimming problem. Fidget and Willie dropped Bobo in the walk-in freezer; he was still alive, but that wouldn't be the case for much longer.

Instead of sticking around to watch what would probably be a very creative murder involving an umbrella, Harley headed for the bar and had Lucy make her a gin martini. She drained the glass and pushed it back to Lucy, who rolled her eyes but made her another one anyway.

"So ya cut him like the Joker, huh?" Lucy asked, doing a poor job of hiding her interest.

"I had a flash of inspiration," Harley replied flatly, reaching across the bar to grab the bottle of gin, ignoring Lucy's protests as she drank straight from the bottle.

* * *

Penguin had a much bigger problem than his goons skimming as a result of his success; the same problem Maroni had had before him.

They were taking in more cash than they could launder, which meant they had warehouses filled with hundreds of millions of dollars just waiting to be seized or stolen or destroyed. Most of their meetings through March were spent trying to find a solution to this endless problem, and after doing some more research, Harley came up with a workable solution.

"Yuri," she turned to the Russian, who had always treated her with begrudging respect since he learned she'd killed the Joker. "You use the Odessa gang for muscle don't you?"

"Da," Yuri confirmed suspiciously. "Our Ukrainian cousins have big muscles but not such big brains."

"But your cousin Boris has Ukrainian citizenship?" Harley pressed.

"Yes," Yuri said warily.

"And he still has contacts back home?" Harley continued.

"Get to the point, Harley," Penguin snapped impatiently.

"The point is we have to think outside of Gotham," Harley snapped back. "There is a Ukranian bank opening on Wall Street next month, Kyiv Financial. All we need to do is get an oligarch on our payroll, and we can secure all of our money there by the end of the year. Once the cash is off the street, we can spread it around so it's not in one place."

There was silence in the room as Gotham's most powerful and dangerous mobsters considered her proposition.

"And how do you propose we find ourselves a fuckin' oligarch?" Marty drawled, balancing his chair on its back two legs. He'd warmed considerably to Harley since she'd saved his ass over stealing from Penguin, but he wasn't letting the others know that.

"Anton Kolisnyk is a billionaire and a Ukrainian oligarch with ties the country's very corrupt financial industry," Harley continued, looking at Sofia instead of Marty. "He has a daughter getting married this summer. She would probably be  _very_  interested in a wedding dress personally designed by Sofia Falcone, don't you think?"

Harley continued to explain the details—of which there were many—as to how they would get their money out of the warehouses and into the bank, and by the time the meeting finished there was a collective sense of relief that they might have finally found a solution. Penguin beamed at Harley as his lieutenants filed out of his office, popping the cork on a bottle of champagne to celebrate. His smile faltered when Sofia stopped beside Harley and peered down at her.

"Very impressive, Harley," she purred, and they shared a secretive smile that Penguin couldn't see. " _Very_  impressive."

"Thanks, Sofie," Harley smirked.

Once she'd downed a glass of champagne with Penguin to toast her brilliant mind, Harley tracked down Fidget and paid him to drive her Downtown with the understanding that this would stay between them. She gave him directions to the street Joe's apartment was on, and when she got out of the car and walked up the front steps, that awful sinking feeling returned alongside memories of flying down the front steps, bleeding and sobbing.

She tested the handle on the front door, and when it didn't open, she used a knife to jimmy the lock and let herself in.

Harley wasn't sure what she was expecting, but as far as she was aware, no one else had known about Joe's apartment aside from the Joker and Bruno, and she had killed both of them. Part of her expected to find their rotting bodies waiting for her, but when she crossed the threshold, there wasn't a single sign of what had happened there.

Someone had cleaned it up.

But who?

Harley climbed the staircase, that sense of loss returning as she walked down the short hallway where she'd killed Bruno, and into the bedroom.

The room was the same, except the bed had been stripped of the sheets and duvet. She lowered herself down onto the mattress, trying to figure out who had cleaned up the bodies and what they had done with them. She had seen a lot of men die, by her hand and others, but when she'd shot the Joker her primary motive had been to escape him, not necessarily to kill him even if that was the most permanent way to go about it. But she hadn't stayed to make sure he was dead, a thought that plagued her frequently. She hadn't tried to find a pulse after he collapsed. She had just wanted to get away.

Even if the Joker had still been alive when she left, it wouldn't have been for very long. Not long enough to call someone or get himself help.

The most likely version of events was much more boring. Joe's father back in Wisconsin would surely have sent someone to check on his son if he'd not heard from him in a while. And when that person arrived, they would have been confronted with the bodies of the Joker and his henchman. The cops would have been called and the bodies disposed of. But why wouldn't Gordon tell the city that the Joker was dead? He liked to filter information to the public, but what reason could he have for not sharing the Joker's death?

Harley laid down on the mattress, and a different kind of memory rolled over her. Mostly when she thought about the Joker, it was those awful last days when they'd argued viciously, and especially those last minutes before she'd shot him and left him for dead. But there were a plethora of other memories for her to choose from, less sad ones. The healthy thing to do would be to move on and not think about him at all, but she knew that wasn't going to happen. He was under her skin, even in death. He was gone, and she had no reason only to remember the bad things about him.

Harley thought about bringing the Joker up to her room at Grin's—a 'booty call,' how  _hilarious_ —and how her heart had been pounding as he kneeled in front of her. Without over-analyzing what she was doing, Harley pulled up her dress and slipped her hand into her underwear. She remembered how his tongue felt in her mouth and on her neck, and how his hands felt on her waist and in her hair, and how it felt to have him inside her, his dark,  _dangerous_ eyes alway watching her closely. Like he was mesmerized by her.

She came with a throaty gasp, picturing him there on top of her, touching her.

Was it fucked up to masturbate over a dead man? Probably, but Harley did a  _lot_  more fucked up things than that.

She stood back up, pulling her dress down before she walked back to the car where Fidget was waiting for her.

* * *

Harley helped set up the deal between Anton the Oligarch, Sofia, and Yuri's cousin Boris Kosov, who ran the Odessa gang, a notoriously brutal collective of musle-for-hire thugs. Harley also took on the role of Penguin's chief enforcer among those on their payroll, with Fidget, Willie and Louis accompanying her most nights unless she felt it was something she needed to take care of herself, like dealing with Detective Bullock, who had indeed turned out to be a valuable friend. He looked into Joe's death and informed Harley that Joe Herdberg's father had filed a missing person's report on 1 December, three days after Harley killed the Joker and Bruno. The GCPD sent a squad car to Joe's apartment and kicked down the door, but no one was there.

That meant the bodies and the crime scene had been cleaned up before the police got there.

That meant someone else had cleaned it up.

But other, more urgent matters required Harley's attention. Under her direction, Penguin's mob controlled virtually the entire GCPD police force, including captains and sergeants just below Gordon's paygrade, and they were able to use those contacts to take out the Chinese gangs by stopping their far superior product at the docks. It was the perfect solution to the Russians' long-running 'Chinese Problem,' and it was also a win for Gordon. He got to bust heroin dealers and feel like he was doing something productive, while inadvertently bolstering Penguin's business.

But as always, when people are pushed too far, they inevitably snap, and Harley was about to find out that was precisely what happened with the Chinese gangs.

One night in April, Harley was summoned to the Russian headquarters Downtown. They held their meetings in a loft above a trashy nightclub where Yuri's boys spent their downtime. There she found Yuri spitting and swearing in Russian, a bottle of vodka in his hand while his boys watched uneasily.

"What the fuck is going on?" Harley demanded, her heels snapping across wooden floorboards vibrating with techno pulsing from the club below, Willie and Fidget looming behind her like they always were.

Yuri flung his arm out, gesturing to a crate in the middle of the room. Harley exchanged a look with Willie, who shrugged, and then one with Fidget, who pursed his lips, then she sighed and stomped forward to peer inside the crate.

"Shit," she muttered.

There were three dead men in the crate, two of whom she recognized as Yuri's boys. Their throats were cut, and their tongues pulled out through the gaping wounds in their necks. Harley had never seen a Columbian Necktie in real life, but she'd seen enough movies to know this was not the work of a Gotham-based killer.

"They say they're fuckin' ninjas," Yuri slurred, taking a swig of vodka as he paced. "Fuckin'  _ninjas_ , man."

"Your buddies down south did this?" Harley sighed, turning away from the crate to face Yuri. "Come on, Yuri. What did you do to piss them off?"

"Is the fuckin' Lucky Hand," Yuri scowled, rubbing a hand over his face. "Fuckin'  _ninjas_."

" _Ninjas_? What the fuck are you talking about, Yuri?" Harley demanded incredulously.

Yuri threw himself down on a lumpy sofa, his boys watching as Harley came to stand in front of him, her arms crossed, her lips pressed into an impatient line.

"The Chinese gangs," Yuri set the bottle of vodka aside and braced his elbows on his thighs, apparently deciding it was time to be productive. "Fuckers call themselves... the Lucky Hand Triad."

"These are the Chinese gangs whose shipments we've been raiding?" Harley lifted an eyebrow. She had a cursory knowledge of the gang war between the Russians and the Chinese, but she and Penguin typically left the details up to the idiots stupid enough to get themselves into a gang war in the first place. "The ones with pure heroin from the middle east?"

"Da," Yuri nodded, pulling a cigarillo from his jacket pocket and lighting it. "Our  _partners_  in Mexico say fuckin' ninjas ransack their storehouses and supply routes. They say they been warned not to do business with Gotham. The Lucky Hand can't fuck us in Gotham, so they're fucking us where it hurts more."

Harley exhaled through her nose, trying to understand what she was hearing. She smoothed a hand over her hair, sticky with hairspray to keep it in its elaborate bouffant, then grabbed a folding chair from the side of the room, pulling it open and setting it in front of Yuri. She sat down, crossed her legs, adjusted her dress, and fixed Yuri with a grim stare.

"Tell me everything you know about the Lucky Hand," she said quietly.

Yuri exhaled a long plume of smoke out of the corner of his mouth before speaking.

"There's three gangs," he started slowly. "Dragons, Tigers, and Cobras. Each of them run by a boss. There's Lau," he held out his thumb, counting them off on his fingers. "Tzu and Ling. These not normal gangs like we're used to. They're fighters. I'm talkin' serious Kung Fu shit. None of my boys who faced them come out of it alive."

"Why do you fight with them? Why not make a deal with them?" Harley asked.

"They don't want a fuckin' deal. Maroni tried that shit, and they sent his messenger's head back in a box," Yuri scoffed, sucking on his cigarillo.

Harley pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, trying to find a solution, but Mexican smuggling cartels and Colombian drug lords were slightly above her paygrade. She needed more information first.

"Okay," she said at length. "We'll have the cops back off at the docks and see if that makes the Lucky Hand more inclined to back off your  _partners_  in Mexico. Can you get them to come up here?"

"The cartels?" Yuri looked at her like she was crazy. "Get them to come to Gotham?"

"Yeah, wine them and dine them," Harley shrugged. "Do some damage control and show them we care and we're working on a solution. Right now, all that matters is not fucking up your relationship with them."

Yuri rubbed his face with both hands his cigarillo burning down to the end between his first two fingers. " _Fuck_ ," was all he said.

Later that night, Harley relayed all that Yuri had told her and her thoughts on the matter to Penguin. He listened with a glass of red wine clenched in his fist, his mouth buried in his knuckles as he blinked rapidly.

"You need to do something about the Lucky Hand," Harley finished.

"Like what!" Penguin snapped. "If they have influence in South America, what the hell do we do?"

"Buy our own influence," Harley shrugged gregariously.

"So we are extending our drug wars here in Gotham across the southern border?" Penguin's mouth pinched, and he shook his head furtively. "No. I find this heroin business  _extremely_  distasteful."

"Everyone finds heroin distasteful," Harley sighed. She couldn't agree more. "But heroin and cocaine make up forty-five percent of our net income. If Yuri can't make deals with the cartels because the Lucky Hand are causing problems, we need to do something about it... here or there."

"What do you have in mind?" Penguin snapped.

Harley's lips pursed. She was getting really fucking tired of solving Penguin's problems for him  _and_  dealing with his manic narcissism. It wasn't that she wanted gratitude, but she  _was_  starting to find Penguin and the politics of the mob incredibly  _tedious_.

"I'll let you know if I come up with something," she said cooly, standing.

She passed through the kitchen and into the club to find Fidget, who had become something of a personal assistant, driver, and bodyguard to her in recent months. He was standing at the bar talking to Marty of all people, and Harley sidled up to them, a coy smirk on her lips.

"What are you two talking about?" She lifted an eyebrow at Marty.

"The Lucky Hand," Marty said, widening his eyes. "Sounds like they've got Yuri spooked."

"Shit, news travels fast," Harley said drolly, her eyes sliding to Fidget. "Get the car."

Fidget nodded and obediently scurried off, leaving Harley alone with Marty who was eyeing her curiously.

"Are you two..." he inclined his head to the kitchen where the doors were still swinging from Fidget passing through them.

"What?  _No._ " Harley made a face.

"Why not?" Marty smirked, ribbing her. "He's a good looking guy."

"Stop," Harley rolled her eyes though her lips spread into a wide smile.

"Now there's somethin' I ain't seen in a while," Marty said affectionately. "You fuckin' smiling is rarer than a hen with teeth."

Harley shrugged mildly, enjoying the familiarity with Marty but also finding it oddly upsetting.

"You alright, love?" Marty frowned, and Harley nodded distractedly. "You ever think about him?" He continued cautiously.

Harley shut her eyes and took a deep breath through her nose before she looked at Marty again.

"All the time," she admitted grimly.

Fidget drove Harley Downtown to Joe's apartment, which she had slowly been moving into. She was coming to find the Iceberg Lounge as tedious as its owner, and desperately needed a place of her own. No one but Fidget knew about the apartment, her very own safe house, and for now, she could trust him. If that changed, she wouldn't hesitate to choose Joe's apartment over him.

Harley dragged her feet up the stairs and into her new bedroom, kicking off her heels and falling back on the bed she'd recently outfitted with fresh sheets and a pretty pale green duvet. It was nice to have a menial task like decorating to balance the rest of her life, and even nicer to know she could go to the Mega Mart in jeans and sneakers to buy sheets and not be recognized or have the police called. That wouldn't be a problem anymore even if someone  _did_  recognize her. Harley was partially responsible for the wide scale corruption of the GCPD after all.

Somehow, over less than five months, Harley had gone from bartender to trusted confident of the head of Gotham's mob. She had plenty of money, she had power, she was safe, and yet she found all of it... unsatisfying. It wasn't quite the same as when she'd been working at Arkham. That had been an entirely different flavor of stifling, but there was no denying she was being used by Penguin just as she'd been used by Walsh before. They both leached off her intellect and abilities for their success. Harley didn't resent Penguin in the same way she'd resented Walsh, she just found him and what he represented...

_Boring._

_So_  fucking boring.

* * *

Their problems with the Lucky Hand only got worse. A week after Yuri received the mutilated bodies of his emissaries, one of their cash storehouses in Tricorner burned down, along with 54 million dollars waiting to be laundered. The heads of the men guarding the warehouse were sent to the Iceberg Lounge, and Penguin dramatically declared war on the Lucky Hand Triad while his lieutenants—Harley, Yuri, Marty, Boris Kosov, and Sofia—exchanged dubious looks with each other.

Penguin owned every piece of muscle in town and almost the entire police force, considerably dwarfing the Lucky Hand's numbers by comparison. But the Lucky Hand were skilled assassins who kept their business secret from the rest of Gotham's underworld, and no matter how many dealer's doors they knocked on, no one knew how to get to them. It was as if they only existed existentially, right up until they were behind you, stabbing you in the back before they cut off your head.

They were  _really_  big on cutting off people's heads.

Yuri managed to temporarily pacify the cartels, promising to take care of the problem in Gotham, though it was obvious he was worried he'd end up with a Columbian Necktie himself. Even without the cartels actively taking action against them, the Hand was still disrupting supply routes, and the Columbian product wasn't making it to Gotham. The Lucky Hand also continued to find their storehouses in Gotham, burning them to the ground along with whatever was inside, and the violence grew to such a fever pitch that a certain masked vigilante could no longer stay away.

 _BATMAN RETURNS!_  The papers cried jubilantly, with astounding cognitive dissonance. They theorized that he had been staying away to avoid inspiring another masked vigilante or villain—freaks in masks breed freaks in masks—but apparently, he could not stand idly by as Gotham sank deeper into a drug war. And with Gotham demoralized, the people not benefiting from the chaos were clamoring for a savior, even if he had killed Harvey Dent.

Harley was sick of all of it. She wasn't interested in being part of a drug war or being responsible for finding solutions to a dysfunctional mafia's administrative problems. She wasn't interested in being on the Batman's watchlist in  _any_  capacity, and she _still_  thought they would all be better off with him dead.

Working for Penguin had been a good distraction for a while, and she  _did_  find some parts of the job intellectually stimulating. But a drug war was just violence and stupidity between two pig-headed sides who refused to back down, destroying each other and everything around them in the process.

By May, Penguin was desperate, and for once he came up with his own solution. He called his lieutenants to his office—Harley, Yuri, Sofia, Marty, and Boris—and told them his plan.

"We need a weapon," Penguin announced, glaring around the room. He was behind his desk, his hands folded together so tightly his knuckles were turning white as he addressed them.

"A weapon?" Sofia lifted one perfectly arched eyebrow. "What did you have in mind?"

"I have had...  _information_ ," Penguin said gingerly, a nasty smile forming on his mouth. "That there is a weapon at Arkham Asylum. One that could drastically change our circumstances with the Lucky Hand."

"At  _Arkham_?" Harley's eyes widened. When she heard the word 'weapon,' she most certainly did not think Arkham.

"Yes," Penguin replied thinly. "We will—"

"What kind of  _weapon_  are they keeping at Arkham?" Harley asked skeptically.

"You know better than anyone that Arkham is considered the safest place in the city—that's why they sent the Joker there," Penguin shot her a withering look. "We will break into Arkham and retrieve the weapon in one week."

"How the fuck do ya plan on breakin' into Arkham?" Marty demanded.

"With Harley's help, of course," Penguin's lip curled as he gestured to her.

"Of course," Harley deadpanned.

"What is the nature of this weapon, Oswald?" Sofia asked diplomatically.

"I will need to inspect it first," Penguin replied, narrowing his eyes at Sofia. "Then I shall inform you appropriately."

After the others left, again exchanging wary looks with one another as had become the custom after a meeting with Penguin, Harley lingered behind.

"Don't you think I should know what it is," she asked carefully. "If I'm...  _retrieving_  it for you."

"Louis will be retrieving it. You are  _assisting_ ," Penguin simpered. "I can tell you it is in D Wing. I need you to come up with a plan for entry and extraction."

"D Wing?" Harley's eyebrows jumped. "Is the weapon... a  _person_?"

"You know all that you need to know," Penguin snapped, turning his attention to a paper on his desk, suggesting their conversation was over.

Harley turned and left, walking straight through the kitchens and out the back door into the alley where Fidget was waiting with the car. She was exasperated with Penguin, not so much for how he treated her, but because he was so  _incompetent_ , forcing her to work  _around_  such incompetence. But she was also intrigued, intrigued enough to go along with this feeble plan for the time being.

A weapon in D Wing?

The possibilities were  _endless_.

And perhaps just what she needed.

* * *

Harley rolled out the blueprints for Arkham Asylum on the butcher's block in the middle of the Iceberg Lounge's kitchen. Standing around her were Penguin, Louis, Johnny, Fidget and Willie, along with three Russians whose names she hadn't bothered to learn and two of Marty's boys she believed to be called Ballbag and Paddy.

This was the final planning meeting before they would break into Arkham later that night. Six months earlier, this kind of plot would have had Harley's heart pounding with anxiety, but by now she was a deft hand at getting herself in and out of sticky situations, and a certain amount of learned arrogance helped keep her calm.

She used a black marker to circle different points on the blueprints, flagging the stairwells, wings, and exit and entry points, as well as the path they would take to get in and out with the weapon. Only Louis knew what—or  _who_ —they were looking for, and even after some gentle prodding, Harley was still in the dark.

It reminded her exceedingly of what it felt like to be kept in the dark about the Joker's plans. Plausible deniability and compartmentalization, Bruno had once said, except Penguin's reluctance to keep Harley in the loop was an offensive measure to keep her uninformed. Strategic, but  _petty_.

The Joker had also kept her in the dark for strategic purposes, but only because he kept his cards close to his chest by default. For the Joker, the people involved in his operations had only existed to carry out what he needed them to do. There had been nothing petty about his secrecy.

Realizing this made Harley come to see the dynamic that existed between them differently. He had kept his campaign against Gotham's elite from her, letting her spin her wheels with Maroni to misdirect her and keep her out of his way, but only because there was no _role_  for her in his master plan. Lonnie would have done the hacking and dissemination of information. The Joker's stupidest goons made the explosives and rigged Crowne Tower to blow. His more thuggish goons would have been on the ground, kidnapping victims and displaying their bodies.

The only space for Harley would have been in the home movies, but their execution was so specific that he would have had to  _make_  space for her. That was extra work. For what? To prove a point to her that she was special?

Sentiment never motivated him. Practicality did, almost as much as chaos.

But Harley also realized that while he'd kept from his plan from her for practical purposes, he had also shown her more than most, a personal side that very few got to see. He may have had friendly chats with Marty over beers, but they didn't watch  _Made in the Diamond District_  in bed together. The Joker didn't reflect on his inner thoughts and feelings with Bruno as he'd occasionally done with Harley. He might have consulted Lonnie on the practicalities of a job, but he'd never have slyly requested his advice on the messaging.

The Joker had been an island of a man, and for a very short time—only weeks, really—Harley had been allowed to vacation there. Whether that could have continued after their fights over Victor, she didn't know, but he was dead, so it didn't particularly matter.

His being dead also meant Harley could fondly look back without paranoia. At the time, she'd continuously been on her guard, waiting for him to show his true colors, and in those last few days, she'd thought she was finally seeing them. Sadistic and cruel, and nothing more.

But in reality, he'd never hidden who he was from her, and Harley had always known there had been much,  _much_  more to him.

More than just a psychopath in a clown suit.

Just like her.

Six months ago, thinking about the Joker this way would have made Harley anxious that she was just a puppet on strings, feeling whatever he wanted her to.

Now he was dead, Harley thought maybe she had finally come to understand what had really happened between them.

Two people thrown together by unique circumstances, who just happened to fit together better than either of them could have imagined at the outset.

It was the most normal thing Harley had ever experienced.

And she'd stubbornly resisted it every step of the way.

But that was all over. Now Harley was once again in the position of figuring out what she wanted so that she could get it for herself. Agency. Freedom. Something  _different._  Something  _more._  She had some of those things, but it still didn't feel like  _enough_.

Harley tugged on her shoulder holster in the bathroom, preparing herself away from the others. They didn't feel like her teammates or her companions. They were just there to serve the various purposes she'd given them. Penguin wasn't coming, and Louis couldn't talk, which put her in charge, not just by default but because she was the only one who knew Arkham.

She wore a long-sleeved black tunic and dark jeans, a pair of ballet flats with straps that would make it easier to run or fight if necessary. She holstered the new gun she'd procured for herself, a Glock modified to be fully automatic, an idea she'd picked up from the Joker. Even now, as comfortable as she was with a gun in her hand, she was still a terrible shot. There was definitely something to be said for the strategy of 'hold down the trigger, and you'll hit something eventually.'

Harley's hair, which had gotten too long, was tied in a fat braid hanging over her shoulder. She fingered the braid, considering the concept that long hair was for idle women who didn't get their hands dirty. It was a luxury, and luxury was boring.

She grabbed the knife tucked in her back pocket and pulled her braid taught, then sawed through it until it came away in her hand and her hair swung loose, brushing her shoulders. On an impulse she grabbed a handful of hair over her face and cut through it, giving herself a blunt set of bangs that helped hide her face.

Examining herself in the mirror, Harley didn't know who she was. Not Harleen Quinzel or Dr Quinzel or even Harley Quinn. She could be whoever she wanted to be.

Satisfied, she loped out of the bathroom and back into the kitchen where the boys were getting ready, loading their weapons and holstering knives and extra ammunition.

"Let's go," she snapped impatiently, stomping through the kitchen and out into the alleyway where an unmarked black van was loitering.

* * *

The drive to the Narrows was almost completely silent aside from the Russians—who Harley thought of as Russians 1, 2 and 3 since she didn't know their names—occasionally speaking to each other in their mother tongue. When they crossed the Narrows Bridge, the van pulled over to the side of the road, and thirty seconds later an ambulance pulled up behind them.

The driver and the two Irishmen remained with the van while Harley and the others migrated to the back of the ambulance and they took off again, the van following close behind. When they got close to Arkham, the van peeled off, and the ambulance's lights and sirens began to flash and wail as the driver laid his foot down on the gas, speeding down the remaining blocks separating them from Arkham.

They came to a sudden, jarring stop at Arkham's back gates, the sirens still screaming for attention as the driver slapped his hand down on the horn over and over again. Arkham's infirmary had been used to house patients evacuated from Gotham General the year before; if there was a medical emergency, they had to open their gates, even at 3 AM.

The old iron gates rattled to the side, allowing the ambulance to back in. Harley peered out the back window, fingering the trigger of her gun as she watched two guards in tan suits prop open the doors to the infirmary before they began to approach the ambulance.

Willie looked to Harley for confirmation, and when she nodded, he kicked the backdoors of the ambulance open. Both guards pulled their guns a second too late, multiple rounds striking each of them in the chest. Harley jumped out of the back of the ambulance and squatted down beside one of the guards, ripping his key-card off his belt before she continued into the asylum with the others.

Just as they stepped into the infirmary, there was a blast that rocked the entire building. That meant the Irish had blown the front gate and were storming the entrance, distracting the other guards inside.

They ran out of the infirmary, past the boardroom and Blakely's old office, and only then did Harley's heart began to pound a little harder as old memories washed over her. But she forced herself to concentrate and not get swept away as their ragtag group dodged into the ground floor stairwell and up the stone steps.

When they reached the second floor, the door leading into A Wing burst open, and a guard hurtled through, shooting before looking and hitting Russian 2 in the neck. Harley, Willie and Johnny were already starting for the third floor while the rest of their team bottlenecked below them, darting back down the stairs as the guard fired at random. Willie turned back and shot at the guard in the head, killing him, but a second guard appeared behind the first. His first shot hit Willie in the shoulder, making him grunt and fall against the wall.

The second guard threw himself back out in the hall for cover, bullets from the Russians still stuck on the stairs pounding into the back of the steel door. Harley huffed impatiently and jumped back down the steps, seeing that more  _thoughtful_  action was warrented. She slammed her elbow down on the guard's arm, forcing him to drop his gun and cry out in surprise as Harley yanked him into the stairwell, then shot him in the head.

See, at close range, Harley was actually a  _very_  good shot.

With one Russian down and Willie wounded but moving fine, they continued up the next flight of stairs to the third floor and out into the hallway leading into C Wing. Harley moved to the front of the group to swipe the stolen key card against the keypad, and the doors to C Wing opened inwards. But before she had a chance to reminisce about C Wing two more guards were running toward them, firing indiscriminately. One of their bullets hit the second Russian, killing him, but the Arkham guards were massively outnumbered, and they were both dead on the floor before making it even halfway down the hallway.

Harley swiped them out of C Wing and into the nurses' station on the other side. This was where Arkham's bizarre, maze-like layout became complicated, but it was second nature to Harley after working sixteen-hour days there for a year. She led the boys into the stairwell beside the nurses' station and down one flight of stairs, then out into a hallway of storerooms. They ran down the length of this hallway without encountering any guards and then into another stairwell, then up three flights of stairs and out into the D Wing nurses' station.

Johnny opened the stairwell door and immeadiately took three bullets to the chest. He fell against the the door frame, and Harley could see over his shoulder that there were four guards between them and the entrance to D Wing. That made it a fight of five on four in their favor. Those weren't bad odds at all, Harley decided, holding Johnny's shoulder to steady him as she wedged her gun under his armpit and used him for cover. She hit one guard in the leg and another in the stomach, sending the other two scattering.

Five on two and a half. Even better odds.

With the guards ducking for cover and no longer able to pick them off one at a time, Fidget and the last Russian rushed out of the stairwell to provide cover as Harley and Louis jogged across the room with Willie acting as a human shield until they reached the double doors of D Wing.

D Wing was secured by both a key card and a keypad with a six-digit code. The code hadn't changed once during Harley's year at Arkham, and she hoped they were stupid enough not to change it since she'd left. If they weren't, Louis was packing C4 that would do the job, but that would take up precious seconds they didn't have to waste. She tapped in the old code and swiped the stolen card against the keypad, and the doors opened inward, making Harley roll her eyes at the absurdity of Arkham.

Willie took a bullet to a head as Harley and Louis hurried into D Wing, and Harley had to brush off the sick twist of nostalgia she felt being there again. Directly to her left was the session room where she'd spent hours with the Joker, getting to know and understand him better than she'd ever realized at the time. But now was not the time for nostalgia, she told herself, watching as Louis rushed down D Wing, checking each cell for the patient name before moving onto the next.

Harley followed behind him slowly, the adrenaline from fighting still rushing through her as she faced the reality that this weapon was a person. An  _inmate._

Faces were appearing in every cell window along the hallway, some of them shouting or banging on the glass ineffectually as Louis moved from one cell to the next while Harley trailed after him, keeping her options open right up until Louis stopped at a cell at the end of the row. He shrugged off his backpack and pulled out the sticky wad of C4 from a resealable bag, then began securing it to the steel door of the cell.

Harley edged closer, ignoring Louis when he waved her off, gesturing that she should remain at the door to cover him if necessary. Like hell she was. She sidled up to him, ignoring the venomous look he shot her as she peered into the cell.

The face peering back at her through the window made Harley's eyebrows jump up into her forehead.

It was a woman, a young and pretty woman though she looked pale and drawn in her orange Arkham jumpsuit. She had wide-set green eyes and vulpine features set in a round face, her cheekbones high and her chin pointed, her mouth small and lips cupid-like. Her dark red hair was pulled back in a tight french braid, and even though her green eyes looked sunken in the shadowy cell, there was no ignoring the cunning spark glittering there.

The woman stared at Harley, her eyes widening as they examined each other through the small square of glass. Harley did not know this woman at all. She didn't know what made her a weapon or how Penguin found out about her, but whatever made her desirable to Penguin made her desirable to Harley too. She needed a weapon of her own, and perhaps this woman could be it. And besides, the idea of handing her off to Penguin to be treated like a  _thing_  to be used sent a shiver of disgust rolling through Harley's gut.

The timer on the C4 beeped as Louis activated it, blinking red LED numbers telling them they had fifteen seconds before the charge blew. Harley waved the woman back from the door, and she backed up into her cell, looking bewildered. The timer blinked to ten seconds as Harley calmly turned to Louis. When she pointed her gun at him, he tried to rush her in a desperate bid to knock it out of her hand, but Harley put a bullet in his gut before he could reach her.

The timer hit five seconds as Harley bolted down the hallway, only escaping the blast radius by a few feet as the charge detonated and a deafening explosion rocked up and down the hall.

Harley clamped her hands down over her ringing ears, wincing but forcing herself to turn and run back to the cell. Louis was on the floor, dead and soot-covered, his left arm separated from his body, and the woman's cell was open, its door laying in two pieces.

The dust was still settling inside the cell when Harley poked her head in.

"Come on!" She shouted, gesturing furtively for the woman to follow her.

"Who the hell are you?" the woman demanded, pressing herself back against the wall of her cell, her green eyes blazing.

"I'm the person helping you escape," Harley snapped, and when the woman opened her mouth to protest, Harley shook her head. "We need to get the fuck out of here _now_. Come on!"

The woman hesitated, then pushed away from the wall and rushed across her cell, over the remains of the door and out into the smoke-filled hallway where she swayed to a stop when confronted with what remained of Louis on the floor. Harley grabbed her by the wrist, giving her a firm yank to get her moving and the woman reluctantly broke into a jog to keep up as they ran the length of D Wing, the inmates shouting and banging furiously on their cells now that they knew a break out was in progress.

Harley swiped the key card and typed in the code on the keypad, opening the door a fraction to see how the firefight had progressed. Fidget and the remaining Russian had taken cover behind the nurse's desk on the right, and the two remaining guards were hiding behind a supply cart on the left, one of them struggling to reload his weapon. Harley opened the door wide enough to fit her arm and shoulder through and fired off a round at the remaining Russian, hitting him the chest but missing Fidget who darted to the side of the desk where she couldn't reach him.

Grabbing the woman's arm again, Harley pulled her out into the anterior room, pivoting left to shoot the remaining guards with all the efficiency that came with holding down the trigger until she hit something. When she was sure they were dead or dying, she forced the woman to stand behind her as she searched for Fidget. He jumped out at her, his gun nowhere to be seen, and backhanded Harley across the face.

Her head snapped to the side, but adrenaline helped her recover quickly, and she swung back around to face Fidget, putting a string of bullets in his chest before he could attack her again.

The woman gasped and tried to pull away, but Harley only tightened her grip on her wrist, half-dragging her to the stairwell. Harley estimated they had another ten minutes at most before the police arrived, but as she started down the stairs, the woman resisted again.

"Wait—wait! Who the hell—"

"Listen, lady," Harley barked, spinning around to glare up at the woman where she stood two steps above her. Harley squeezed her wrist hard to get her attention. "This is your  _one_  chance to get out of here. I need you to move  _now_."

The woman's eyes narrowed, and her nostrils flared, but she shut her mouth and hurried down the stairs beside Harley anyway.

They sprinted down the stairs to C Wing, following the path back to the infirmary. The back doors were standing open, the ambulance still sitting there with its lights flashing, the bodies of the first two guards exactly where they'd left them. The woman stopped to stare at the bodies, but police sirens were wailing right around the corner, so Harley dug her nails into the woman's arm and snapped at her to get moving as she pulled her through the gate.

Freedom seemed to do something to the woman, who was suddenly eager to run across the street with Harley, and together they dove into a dark alley just as a police cruiser came speeding up the block behind them.

The alley was squeezed between two dilapidated residential buildings, the sounds of televisions blaring and people arguing not entirely drowned out by the screaming of sirens as more cruisers arrived. Harley slowed to a stop so they could catch their breath, but when she started moving again, the woman dug her heels in.

Harley turned to glare at her, giving her arm a harsh tug to make her point, but the woman just narrowed her eyes and wrapped her free hand around Harley's wrist.

" _Lady_ ," Harley snapped, her patience splintering. "We have got to—"

Suddenly, a tidal wave of mixed emotions crashed over Harley, her vision blurring like she was facing the sun or even God himself, bright and warm and loving but also blinding and painful. She gasped as a complex series of feelings and sensations rushed through her, making her feel like she was tumbling through a raging storm but also pillowed in a warm, comforting embrace. It was at once terrible and the most beautiful thing Harley had ever experienced.

"Who are you?" the woman hissed.

"Harley! Harleen Quinzel!" Harley sputtered desperately, her mouth moving without her permission. But it felt good to _give_  in and not have to make the choice herself.

" _You_  are Harleen Quinzel?" The woman demanded incredulously, squeezing Harley's wrist hard. "You're Harley Quinn?"

"Yes!" Harley breathed. The waves of sensation were fading, leaving her numb like she was separated from her body, no longer operating it. No longer herself. It felt  _peaceful._

"What do you want from me?" the woman huffed impatiently.

"They said you're a weapon. I need a weapon," Harley babbled, desperate to give the woman what she wanted. Anything she wanted. Harley wanted to give her  _everything._  "I just need  _help,"_ she begged.

"So you want to use me, is that it?" the woman bristled indignantly. "You want to use me for my powers?"

"I don't know anything about your powers," Harley smiled, blissfully calm for once in her life now that she didn't have to  _worry_. "I just need your help," she added.

"Help," the woman said quietly, and then she released Harley.

Suddenly the dark alley came swooping back in, and Harley was in her body once more, the sounds of sirens and men shouting nearly deafening. She swooned and doubled over, catching herself on her hands and knees, and stayed there breathing deeply before she forced herself up, her head tipping back to stare at the woman incredulously, all the thoughts and feelings she'd just experienced rushing through her again,  _horrifying_  her this time.

"Who the fuck are you?" Harley demanded, her voice thick.

"Pamela," the woman snapped, lifting her chin imperiously. "Pamela Isley."

* * *

 **A/N:** **For the record,** **I see Pam as an Emma Stone type.**

**CRAP last week really got to you guys! This is obviously a slight change of pace but after next week, things will be back to normal (ish).**

**Next week's chapter is twice as long as a normal chapter because I didn't want to go multiple weeks without the Joker. So uh... do what you have to to make the time!**

**Next: Pam and Harley stir up trouble, and the Joker isn't as dead as Harley thinks he is.**

**Please review! I loved all you lurkers coming out of the woodwork last week.**


	23. Chapter 23

The Harlequin

23.

* * *

"Pamela," the woman snapped, lifting her chin imperiously. "Pamela Isley."

Harley slowly rose back up to her feet, glaring at the woman— _Pamela_ —as she tried to decide what to do about... whatever it was she'd just experienced. There were a hundred questions on the tip of her tongue, but police sirens were wailing just around the corner and if the cops didn't find them, the Batman would.

"We need to get off the street," Harley announced, grabbing Pamela's arm as she started to plot a course to safety.

"Are you taking me to the Joker?" Pamela demanded, wrenching her arm free stubbornly.

"The Joker is  _dead,"_  Harley snapped, shooting her a skeptical look before she started moving down the alley without her. "How long have you been at Arkham?" She tossed over her shoulder.

Pamela hurried to catch up, her eyes on her bare feet as she darted around broken glass. "Since December," she replied reluctantly. "What do you mean he's dead?"

"What do you think  _dead_  means," Harley scowled, her eyes prowling the fire escapes overhead for a cloak billowing in the darkness. "I have an idea," she said abruptly.

"Where are we—"

"Just shut up and stick close," Harley hissed. "We'll talk when we're off the street."

Pamela only took this advice on board moderately, sticking close to Harley as they darted down stinking alleys and through deprived areas that looked more like third world shanty towns than urban sprawl. Every fifteen minutes or so, she would ask where they were going or how much longer it would be, and Harley would tell her to shut up. She was trying to focus, which Pamela didn't seem to appreciate.

They reached the other side of the island just as the sky was beginning to grow light with the approaching dawn. Hidden in an alleyway and peering around the corner, Harley eyeballed a narrow street lined with run-down hotels and prostitutes, and spotted the hotel she was looking for, the one she and the Joker had stayed at for a couple of days with no questions asked.

"Well?" Pamela demanded impatiently, sounding frustrated instead of scared, prompting Harley to shoot a withering look over her shoulder.

"There's a hotel that won't ask any questions," Harley filled her in quickly, drawing her gun from the back of her jeans and checking the magazine. She had three bullets left. "We need money," she added, pursing her lips thoughtfully.

"How are we going to get money?" Pamela asked, her eyes narrowing.

Harley ignored her again, squinting down the street at the prostitutes. A handful of ideas occurred to her, none of them good, one that was better than the rest but it would need to happen soon if it was going to work. Pam continued to ask questions, but Harley effectively blocked her out, keeping most of herself hidden behind the building as she watched men drift up to the prostitutes, speak to a few of them, and eventually chose one to take to the hotels on the strip.

Then Harley spotted him. A man in a decent but rumpled suit, his pink pocket square telling her all she needed to know as he staggered up the street toward them.

Harley slunk around the side of the building, keeping herself half in the shadow of the alley, and smirked as he approached.

"Hiya," she purred, catching his eye.

He blinked stupidly and stumbled over to her, too drunk or high to know better. When he was within arms reach, Harley grabbed him by the front of his jacket, pulling him to her like she was going to kiss him. She shoved the barrel of her gun to the fleshy underside of his jaw before he got too close, forcing his head back and making him whine drunkenly.

"Shut up," Harley snapped, spinning him back into the darkened alley so they wouldn't be seen. "Give me your wallet."

He whined again, too wasted to understand, and Harley began to regret choosing him. Then suddenly his eyes cleared and the tension left his face, and he sighed happily. Harley's eyes darted to the side where Pamela had wrapped her hand around the drunk man's wrist.

"Give her your wallet," Pamela said, her voice low, and the man quickly pulled his wallet from his back pocket and offered it to Harley.

Harley accepted it warily, tucking her gun into the back of her jeans before she flipped the wallet open. There was three-hundred dollars cash and a mostly-empty baggie of cocaine inside.

"Ask him if he has a gun," Harley said, tossing the cocaine aside and pocketing the cash.

"Do you have a gun?" Pamela asked in that same low voice.

"No," the man smiled crookedly.

"Go home," Pamela said. "Go to sleep when you get there. Forget about us." She released the man's wrist, and he turned away from them quickly, walking back down the street with much more dignity than he'd arrived there with.

Harley eyed Pamela curiously, imagining the wide array of possibilities this odd woman presented. Then Pamela turned back to Harley, releasing a sigh she seemed to have been holding until she noticed Harley staring.

"What?" She asked defensively.

"I'm impressed," Harley admitted with a shrug, keeping her thoughts to herself.

They continued down the passages of alleyways until they found the back of the hotel. Harley directed Pamela to wait for her there, for which she received a petulant scowl, but Harly just rolled her eyes and circled back to the main road, hoping Pamela had some sense of self-preservation or at least realized she couldn't run around town in broad daylight wearing an orange jumpsuit, even if she was in the Narrows.

The same old woman who'd been behind the bulletproof glass in the hotel's reception area was there now, a Marlboro Red burning down between two gnarled, tobacco-stained fingers. Harley slid two-hundred dollars through the small partition in the glass, hoping it would be enough to keep her quiet. Last time she'd given her a thousand and hadn't received so much as a curious look. This time, for two-hundred, the woman glanced up while Harley kept her face hidden behind her bangs.

"Three nights," the woman croaked, pushing a key through the partition.

Harley took the key and loped up the narrow staircase to the rooms above. She found their room on the third floor, and quickly slipped inside before closing and locking the door behind her. It was a small room with a double bed covered in a sticky-looking bedspread and a chest of drawers with an old television propped up; it was almost identical to the room Harley had stayed in the last time she'd been there with the Joker.

She shuddered involuntarily, shaking off those old memories. It was time to focus.

The sun had risen fully by the time Harley forced open the window and clambered out onto the fire escape. In the backstreet below, she could see Pamela, neon orange and impossible to miss, pacing with her arms folded tight across her chest. Harley whistled to get her attention before sending down the fire escape ladder. Once Pamela started climbing, Harley ducked back into the room, sitting on the bed but not relaxing until Pamela gracelessly tumbled in through the window.

"Alright," Harley said, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. "We should get some sleep."

"Some sleep?" Pamela scoffed, using the window to prop herself up as she brushed dirt off her feet. "You said we would talk when we got off the street and the police weren't chasing us and—"

"Oh, the police are still chasing us," Harley spat, her patience fraying as she started to consider the broader breadth of problems she'd created for herself by turning on Penguin and stealing his 'weapon.' "They'll be chasing us twice as hard as they normally would."

"What are you talking about?" Pamela demanded, and Harley sighed as she rolled her eyes heavenwards. Explaining everything to this stubborn woman was going to make her rip her hair out.

"I work— _used_  to work—for a man named Oswald Cobblepot. Some people call him the Penguin," Harley started, keeping her eyes on the ceiling. "He's the head of the mob—"

"You for work the  _mob!"_  Pamela hissed indignantly, her eyes widening.

"Everyone in Gotham works for the mob," Harley replied flatly. "Including a majority of the GCPD. So when Penguin tells the cops to find us, you can bet your ass they're going to try."

Pamela shut her eyes and tipped her head back, exhaling loudly through her nose like she was trying to keep herself calm. Then her eyes snapped open, and she was glaring at Harley again.

"So why? Why did you break me out?" She narrowed her eyes, radiating suspicion. "Why is your boss so interested in me?"

"He's in the middle of a drug war that he's losing," Harley explained tightly, exasperated and exhausted. Her eyelids were starting to droop as she spoke. "Somehow he knows about your... a _bilities,_ and he thought he could use you to win this pointless war."

"So why did you turn on him?" Pamela stepped away from the window, her narrowed eyes sweeping over Harley like she was taking stock of her. "You said  _you_  needed a weapon. You said you needed  _help._ "

"Look, I didn't exactly think it through," Harley snapped, raking a hand through her hair. "I saw you were in there, and I just thought,  _fuck_  these guys. So I broke you out and killed the rest of Penguin's men. Now I want to get some sleep."

"And now they're going to come after us?" Pamela pressed as Harley determinedly kicked her feet up on the bed and laid down.

"They'll try," she replied, shutting her eyes and hoping it would be enough to get Pamela to back off. "And we'll stop them," she added.

It seemed to work. Pamela was silent, and as Harley started to drift off, she felt the bed shift as Pamela laid down beside her.

"I hope you're right," Pamela muttered unhappily.

* * *

When Harley woke up the cheap little LED clock on the bedside table told her it was early afternoon. She glanced over her shoulder to see Pamela was still sleeping, curled up in a fetal position near the edge of the bed, her dark red hair clashing terribly with the violently orange Arkham scrubs.

Harley sighed, knowing she needed to come up with a plan or at least the  _direction_  for a plan. Then her stomach rumbled, and she decided clothes and food were next on their list of things to acquire now that they had shelter.

After tucking their last hundred dollar bill into her pocket, Harley slipped out into the hallway, still unsure of the specifics of her plan. But no sooner than she'd shut the door behind her, a young blonde in a shabby maid's uniform appeared, pushing a housekeeping trolly up the hall toward Harley. The maid couldn't have been older than eighteen, and she was scrawny, no doubt on the verge of homelessness if she was a teenager in the Narrows. Harley had a sudden flash of inspiration, offering the girl a friendly smile as she rolled her cart to a stop a few feet away.

"Hey," Harley greeted her cheerfully, moving closer. "How long before your shift ends?"

There was a long stretch of silence before the girl quietly replied, "Twenty minutes."

"Listen, my friend and I are kind of in a jam," Harley leaned one elbow on the housekeeping cart and gave the girl her best  _just between us gals_ smile as she pulled the hundred dollar bill from her pocket and waved it at her. "I don't suppose after your shift you could help us out and bring us some clothes, could you?"

"Some clothes?" the girl's eyes widened, darting between the bill and Harley's smiling face.

"Nothing fancy," Harley insisted, waving the bill absentmindedly and successfully drawing the girl's attention back to it. "Just some jeans and shirts from a shelter or a discount store. And a pair of shoes. Can you do that? And bring them back here later today?"

The girl was still staring at the bill in Harley's hand so Harley ducked down, forcing her to meet her eye. She had big, brown eyes and a button nose, her ashy blonde hair cropped short and shaved at the sides in an undercut.

"Yes," the girl nodded after a beat, accepting the money.

"Great," Harley beamed. "What's your name?"

The girl bit the inside of her cheek, eyeing Harley warily. "Dinah," she said at length.

"Well, Dinah," Harley backed up a few steps until she was leaning against the door to her room. "My friend and I are just in here, so feel free to knock when you're back."

Dinah nodded slowly, staring down at the bill in her hand like it was something alien. That was no surprise; the poverty in the Narrows was so bad it was more than likely she'd never seen a hundred dollars in one place before.

Harley gave Dinah one last smile before she slipped back into the room, the corners of her mouth immediately turning down once she'd closed and locked the door.

* * *

Harley spent the day lying on the bed staring at the textured ceiling, studying the strange swirls in the plaster as she tried to decide what to do. Perhaps it was better not to plan, and to let the universe take its course. That's what the Joker would have advised from beyond the grave.

Pamela was in the shower when Dinah knocked on their door around sunset, and she came bearing a duffle bag and the change from the money Harley had given her.

"Keep it," Harley said, pushing Dinah's hand back when she tried to give her the remaining money.

"Are you sure?" Dinah looked suspicious, so Harley decided to give her a new task, intrigued to see how she'd cope with having her civic boundaries tested.

"We need ski masks," Harley informed her, raising one eyebrow, daring Dinah to question her. "Can you bring them to me before your shift tomorrow morning?"

Dinah licked her lips nervously but nodded. "My shift starts at 6 AM," she said. "I'll bring them then."

Harley was smirking when she dumped the duffle bag out on the bed, just in time for Pamela to poke her head out of the steam-filled bathroom to see what was happening.

"Where did you get that?" She demanded, seeing Harley shifting through a small pile of clothes from the Goodwill.

"I made a new friend," Harley replied blithely, picking up a pink and orange Hawaiian shirt and grinning at Pamela. "This is  _very_  you."

"What do you mean you made a friend?" Pamela squinted at Harley. "Who knows we're here?"

"Jesus, Pam," Harley rolled her eyes and threw the Hawaiian shirt at her. "The  _maid_ , okay? I paid her to get you some clothes."

"So we have no money left?" Pamela's eyes widened, her mouth tightening in frustration. "And my name is  _Pamela._ "

"Get dressed,  _Pam_ ," Harley flopped down on the bed and examined a yellow sweatshirt with Mickey Mouse printed across the front. She threw that a Pam too, making her huff indignantly. "I'm starving, and we have work to do."

Pam came out of the bathroom some ten minutes later wearing a pair of acid-washed flares, the Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, and lime green flip flops, her wet hair tied up in a knot on top of her head. Even in her ridiculous outfit, she looked infinitely more dignified than she had in baggy, Arkham-issue-orange.

"Is it safe to be out in public?" Pam asked as they left the hotel through the front entrance, weaving between prostitutes starting their evening shifts.

"Sure," Harley shrugged. "Do you think any of these people know or care who we are?"

Pam looked disgruntled. "You made it sound like Penguin had people everywhere."

"Not here, he doesn't," Harley said firmly, stopping outside a small bodega. She fixed Pam with a steely look. "Do we need to agree on a plan, or are you okay to just do your thing?"

"I'm sure I can follow your lead," Pam sneered.

Harley rolled her eyes at the constant  _attitude_  problem and strolled into the shop with Pam on her heels. There was a Hispanic man behind the register, his attention fixed on a portable television playing a telenovela, but otherwise, the place was empty. Harley stepped up to the counter and pulled her gun from the back of her jeans, pointing it at the man and keeping her face impassive as he jumped to his feet and held his hands up, pleading with her in rapid Spanish.

"We're going to need the money in the register," Harley told him as Pam circled the counter and laid her hand on the back of the man's neck. His face instantly relaxed, and he even turned to give Pam a sloppy grin, which she returned with a tight smile of her own. Without Pam giving any verbal instructions, he opened the register and began stacking the cash on the counter.

"Nice," Harley smirked, watching the man count out what she hoped would be at least a couple hundred dollars. "Grab me a bag, will you?"

Pam pulled one of the plastic bags off the rack behind the register and handed it to Harley, who then went around the shop gathering supplies, including all the ramen noodles she could carry. Pam piled the cash into a separate bag, one of her hands still on the back of the man's neck as Harley nabbed two bottles of wine from behind the counter.

"Are you throwing a party?" Pam asked drily, which only made Harley laugh.

"Are you telling me you  _don't_  need a drink?" She countered.

Harley watched as Pam told the bodega owner to call the police and tell them two men had robbed him at gunpoint while he smiled dreamily at her, and as they walked back to the hotel sharing a bag of pretzels, Harley gently started probing Pam for information, collecting what information she could about these  _intriguing_  abilities of hers.

"So, how does it work? You have to touch someone's skin, and you can control them?" Harley asked, offering the pretzels to Pam.

"Basically," Pam confessed, popping a pretzel in her mouth and chewing it thoughtfully. "If I can touch them I can kind of...  _connect_  with them and will them to do what I want. Sometimes it helps if I say it out loud, but I think that's because it helps me focus rather than them."

"Right," Harley nodded, thinking about the behavior she'd witnessed so far. "When you touched... or I guess,  _connected_  with the bodega owner, did you  _will_  him to calm down?"

"No," Pam said slowly, wrapping her arms around herself like she was cold. "I touched him, and I felt the connection happen, then I  _willed_  him to take the money out of the register."

"So one minute he's screaming his head off because I'm pointing a gun at him," Harley tossed the empty pretzel bag in an overflowing garbage heap. "Then the next minute he's standing there happy as a clam because you've connected with him, not because you've  _told_  him to be calm?"

"Pretty much," Pam nodded, pursing her lips. "They always go like that. Like they're happy to have me come in and take over. I think it might be because people don't really want free will. It's too much for them, and it's easier to have someone else in control."

"Maybe," Harley said cautiously, feeling this sentiment said more about Pam than it did about her victims. "You're obviously tapping into the limbic system somehow."

"How is that _obvious_?" Pam shot her a bemused look.

"Because when you connect with your...  _subjects,"_ Harley said diplomatically. "There's this complex swell of emotion followed by resignation. Emotion comes from the limbic system, which is also our reward center. Pleasure, pain, fear, empathy. Those feelings and their rewards are what make a functioning human behave and act the way they do." Harley stopped walking when they arrived back at the hotel, and turned to face Pam. "I felt all those things when you touched me. I was overwhelmed by them, and I felt like I no longer lived for myself, but for you. And I didn't care. That was fine by me. My behavior was yours to control."

"No one's ever explained it to me like that before," Pam admitted, a line forming between her eyebrows.

"Have you used your abilities on many celebrated behavioral psychologists?" Harley smirked, making Pam laugh reluctantly.

* * *

That evening they ate ramen and talked about their former careers over a bottle of wine, most of which Harley drank herself. Pam also completed a PhD at Gotham University, but hers was in Environmental Ecology— basically Botony. Even though they worked in completely different fields on completely different parts of campus, Harley and Pam were able to have a conversation about their experiences as young women in academia, and gradually, Pam started to relax. It turned out she was pretty funny in her own dry, intellectual kind of way, even if every time she laughed, there was something a little reluctant about it.

Harley didn't press her for more information on her abilities—that would come with time—but she did tell her what she had in mind for the next day.

"You want to rob a bank?" Pam repeated, her eyebrows rising incredulously. "You're serious?"

"Sure," Harley nodded enthusiastically. "We have less than three-hundred dollars. That's not even enough to keep us here for another three days."

Pam still didn't look convinced. "They have CCTV cameras in banks. If anyone finds out we're still in the Narrows we're screwed."

"I'm working on that," Harley said evasively.

Dinah arrived at dawn, but not with the two ski masks Harley had requested. Instead, she brought two Batman cowls she'd found at the Goodwill, and offered them up uncertainly.

"These are fine," Harley reassured her, fingering the rubber masks thoughtfully. They'd cover their faces, which was the most important thing, but they might also draw  _unnecessary_  attention. Then again, there was something about robbing a bank wearing a Batman cowl that was just a little too irresistible to pass up.

While Dinah went to work cleaning the hotel, Harley and Pam walked six blocks to a small branch of the First Gotham Bank. They arrived about ten minutes after it opened, and from where Harley was standing outside, she could see only one patron talking to the sole teller sitting behind bulletproof glass. Knowing it was going to be painfully easy made a fissure of disappointment wiggle through Harley, but they needed the money and it not being a challenge wasn't a good enough reason to skip it.

"Have you ever done this before?" Pam asked warily, pulling the Batman cowls out of the duffle bag they'd brought with them and handing one to Harley. "Robbed a bank, I mean?"

Harley shot her a crooked smirk. "I've done a lot worse than rob a bank. This will be easy."

They pulled on the cowls, their hair flaring out where the masks ended, and Harley glanced briefly at Pam to see how she was faring before she stepped into the small bank, shooting two of her last three bullets into the ceiling.

"This a robbery!" Harley shouted, feeling foolish as the lone customer immediately hit the floor, and the bank teller jumped out of her seat with her hands up.

Harley stood over the customer, keeping her gun trained on him while Pam slapped her hand on the back of the security guard's neck. His face immediately melted into a lovesick grin, and Pam muttered in his ear as he drew the pistol holstered at his hip and the keys attached to his belt, then marched over to the bank teller.

While the guard unlocked the plexiglass door, the teller remained standing with her hands raised, her face twisting in confusion as she tried to figure out what was happening.

Almost as soon as it began, it was over. Harley and Pam stuffed their masks into the duffle bag with the cash and the security guard's gun, and took off down the street, Pam's flip flops slapping along the concrete.

* * *

"It's not enough," Harley frowned down at the cash they'd counted out on the bed.

"Not enough?" Pam shot her an incredulous look. "That's five thousand dollars. What is it not enough for?"

Harley didn't reply as she fingered a stack of twenty-dollar bills wrapped in a piece of white tape. Then she looked at Pam.

"What do you want?" Harley asked her grimly.

"What do I  _want?"_  Pam asked, looking bemused. "Just to be safe. I don't want to go back to Arkham."

"Money buys guns," Harley said slowly, her jaw setting resolutely. "Money and guns buy you power, and power makes you safe. At least that's how it works in Gotham."

Pam didn't seem to know what to say to that, so she headed to the bathroom to make a couple of pots of ramen with hot water from the sink, her eyebrows set in a deep furrow.

Harley left Pam to think it over as she hunted down the remote and clicked through basic cable until she found the evening news. Mike Engel spent five minutes informing people about an 'attempted' break out at Arkham—they were claiming no one escaped—but a story about two women wearing Batman masks robbing a bank in the Narrows wasn't enough to make the evening news.

"Why were you at Arkham?" Harley asked when Pam returned with their ramen.

"Oh, it was... complicated," Pam said evasively, but Harley continued to stare at her, one eyebrow arched knowingly, and finally Pam gave in. "This happened to me about a year ago," she started slowly. "I was doing some... non-traditional experiments with plant toxins on myself."

"On yourself?" Harley's eyes widened, and Pam nodded, her lips pursing sourly.

"The university refused to fund my proposal," she explained, catching Harley's eye. "My theory was that a specific combination of toxins from certain exotic species of flora would boost the human immune system when injected directly into the thymus gland. As far as I was concerned, the science was strong, and there was no question it would work..."

Harley leaned forward when Pam trailed off. "And?"

"And... after a month of regular injections I started to see results," Pam continued, her mouth twisting ironically. "Just not the ones I had been expecting."

"Like what?" Harley pushed.

"My vision improved and I stopped having to wear glasses," Pam recounted thoughtfully. "My skin cleared up, and then my asthma just disappeared completely. Then my body started to change, drastically. Like I was working out for ten hours a day instead of sitting in a lab. Suddenly, I had a flat stomach for the first time in my  _life_ , and then... um..."

Pam hesitated then, pressing her lips together as she considered her next words carefully, and Harley could suddenly perfectly picture her as a bespeckled asthmatic academic. The frumpy, stubborn, caustic redhead scientist labeled a 'difficult woman' by her male peers, being denied funding but refusing to let her work go untested. Suddenly a lot of things about Pam made sense.

"Dating was never really a priority for me," Pam continued carefully, looking determinedly down into her ramen. "But I brought this guy home one night, and I realized I was... making him do things..."

"Wow," Harley grinned and Pam shot her a withering look.

"Yeah, well," she rolled her eyes out to the side, looking a little ashamed. "I tried it on other people and figured out how to control it. I guess I got arrogant."

"And then you got caught?" Harley asked, and Pam nodded slowly, her face strained.

"Do you remember those environmental protests during the Thanksgiving riots?"

Harley nodded, her eyes widening as she realized where Pam was going with this.

"I was part of that activist group, and those protests getting out of control was partially my fault. I was so  _angry_  over the Dumas scandal, and my anger seemed to  _fuel_  the other activists, and I realized I could make them do what I wanted even when I  _wasn't_  touching them. They became like...  _drones,_  doing what I wanted, when I wanted. So I had them bomb Dumas and..."

Harley cut her off, already knowing how the story would end.

"You're telling me when your emotions become heightened, your abilities get stronger? To the point where you don't even need to touch your subject?" Harley asked, and when Pam nodded uncertainly Harley realized just how thoroughly in the dark Pam was about her powers— she  _was_  powerful because of her abilities, what better word was there for them?

"If your abilities are tied to  _your_  emotions, not just your subject's emotions, that proves these plant toxins are more interested in the limbic system than the immune system," Harley said thoughtfully. "But if you messed with the hormones in the thymus gland, you're going to have fluctuation as other hormones try to balance each other out, just like going on the pill or taking steroids. That might account for the other physical changes."

"That makes sense," Pam agreed, looking embarrassed. "I just assumed by using the thymus as the entry point the toxins would automatically invest in the immune system."

"Sounds like these plants are smarter than you thought," Harley observed, lifting an eyebrow. "But listen, Pam, it's possible to tap into deep emotional feelings without being emotionally compromised. If you train your brain, who knows what you could be capable of."

Pam frowned, not looking convinced.

* * *

When Dinah arrived for her shift the next morning, Harley and Pam were waiting for her in the hallway, Pam looking uncertain while Harley was beaming.

"Hi," Dinah said warily. She hadn't changed into her maid's uniform yet, wearing scuffed Chuck Taylors and skinny jeans that showed just how underfed she was.

"Hey," Harley grinned and held out a stack of crisp bills amounting to two-thousand dollars. "We need a car."

Instead of taking the money, Dinah's eyes darted suspiciously between Harley and Pam. "I don't understand," she said cautiously.

Harley and Pam exchanged a look. They'd already discussed filling Dinah in and 'droning' her into forgetting depending on how she reacted.

"We're robbing a bank," Harley informed Dinah cheerfully. "We need a car and a driver. I thought you might be interested because, well," she looked up and down the shabby hallway and then back to Dinah. "This place is gross, and I think you can do better."

"You're..." Dinah trailed off, still looking between the two of them, more alarmed than suspicious now. "Is this a joke?"

"Do you know who she is?" Pam jerked her thumb at Harley, and when Dinah shook her head 'no,' Pam cleared her throat awkwardly. "She's Harley Quinn. We're on the run from mobsters and don't have any money. Right, Harley?" Pam looked at Harley, who nodded once.

"Mobsters," Harley confirmed, trying not to laugh. "So what do you think, Dinah? Do a few jobs for me, and I'll pay you right. You can get out of this place at least. Does that sound like a good deal?"

"Sounds like too good of a deal," Dinah replied darkly.

"Maybe," Harley shrugged, her expression cooling. "But what other choice do you have?"

"That's not what she means," Pam shot Harley an exasperated look. "Harley means it may sound easy, but it's not going to be."

"Right," Dinah said hesitantly, her brown eyes still swinging back and forth between them. "So what do you want me to do?"

"There's a guy called Sammy the Slug who owns a dump on the outskirts of town," Harley explained, handing Dinah the wad of cash. "He sells stolen cars with clean license plates. Now, we want something discrete and forgettable like a Honda..."

Harley explained how to get to Sammy's dump and how to recognize Sammy, including a dire warning  _not_  to mention that it was Harley Quinn who sent her. Dinah nodded as Harley spoke, like she was trying to memorize every item of information she was being given. When she started to leave Pam stopped her.

"Can you... pick a couple of things up for me?" She asked delicately. "I need some underwear," Pam confided, looking embarrassed. "And a bra. Nothing fancy just  _something_."

Dinah nodded and looked at Harley, her eyebrows raised in a question.

"Bras are shackles of the patriarchy, and I gave up on underwear yesterday," Harley smirked, laughing outright when both women wrinkled their noses.

Harley realized then that actually, this was kind of  _fun_.

* * *

Harley and Pam spent the day arguing over how large the bank should be and where. Harley wanted to go big, Pam wanted to go small. Harley wanted to go Uptown, Pam wanted to stick to the Eastside. They compromised on a medium-sized bank in the University District since both of them knew the area well, and both of them felt confident they could contain a situation there.

They had two guns; Harley's modified automatic with one bullet in the chamber and the security guard's bargain variety pistol which was still fully loaded. Harley showed Pam how her gun worked and how to hold it for the sake of intimidating customers while Pam made faces and complained about how she hated guns.

"Some of us aren't lucky enough to have superpowers that allow us to control people's behavior," Harley replied breezily. "We just have to shoot them the old fashioned way."

Dinah returned later that night with underwear for Pam and a twenty-year-old Honda that would fit in nicely among the University District's college professor and student vehicles. Suspecting Dinah was living in a shared housing facility, Harley offered her the sticky bedspread and a pillow on the floor, which she gratefully accepted.

The next day they cased the University District bank, sending Dinah in to report back on the number of people, guards, and tellers, and working out the best escape route. Harley did most of the talking and planning while Pam and Dinah listened intently,  _learning_ , Harley guessed. It made her feel altruistic to pass on her hard-won knowledge, and her thoughts frequently turned to the Joker to wonder what he would think about her being so open with two women who were almost total strangers.

If he'd dragged her along to a bank robbery in those early days, she could almost guarantee she wouldn't have known what they were doing until the second he announced it to a group of terrified strangers. Harley was doing this the smart way; keeping the girls informed so they could improvise if they needed to.

Being surrounded by female energy did something wonderful for Harley's mood. She'd even go so far as to say she was  _optimistic_  despite having no idea what the future held for her. That was fine. The moment she was enjoying more than made up for her inability to plan.

Though she wasn't sure it was a good idea, Harley took Pam and Dinah to Joe's apartment, her safehouse Downtown. The only other people who knew about it were dead, but here she was inviting two strangers in any way, telling them it was a 'friend's' place instead of giving them the back story of how she'd come by it and what had happened there. That was one story she would not be repeating no matter how much she was enjoying her new friends.

Dinah and Pam were nervous the next morning, but Harley was buzzing with excitement. She applied a slick of red lipstick and got dressed in the black jeans she'd been wearing for days, along with one of the tee-shirts Dinah brought from the Goodwill, a child's shirt announcing the wearer a participant of Bear Creek Summer Camp's 1996 Frisbee Tournament. Pam traded the flip flops she'd been stuck with for a pair of sneakers Harley kept at the safe house for working out, and the Hawaiian print shirt since all of Harley's Iceberg Lounge outfits were impractical dresses.

Even Dinah giggled behind her hand as Pam sulked in her pink and orange Hawaiian shirt, complaining that it was the least inconspicuous thing she could wear to rob a bank as they headed for the University District.

When Dinah pulled the Honda up next to the bank, she pursed her lips and she examined the street, then looked back at Harley and Pam where they were lying on the backseat, pulling on their Batman cowls and going over last-minute details.

"You're clear," Dinah said, spurring Harley and Pam to jump out of the car and jog up the short flight of steps to the bank.

It was a small bank, not the narrow inner-city style branch they'd robbed in the Narrows but certainly no Wall Street behemoth. There were no more than ten customers lined up in front of three bank tellers, most of them staring at their phone screens as Harley and Pam swept through the front entrance.

A guard was standing just to the left of the door, but he didn't notice Harley until it was too late. She threw her elbow into his face, breaking his nose and making him shout in surprise. The rest of the bank turned to see what the commotion was about just as Pam wrapped her hands around the guard's fleshy neck and whispered in his ear.

Harley raised her gun and shot three bullets into the ceiling.

"Get on the fucking ground!" She barked, dusty plaster raining down as she headed for the line of customers, their eyes widening upon being confronted with a blonde woman wearing a Batman cowl and pointing a gun at them. "Phones down  _NOW!"_  She shot the floor beside her, making the customers gasp. They flung their phones at her obediently, all of them dropping to their hands and knees or bellies, covering their heads and cowering behind each other.

Harley watched impatiently as Pam and the guard moved from one teller to the next, collecting the cash in the tills. She rocked from one foot to the other, occasionally throwing insults or threats to her group of hostages, but her attention was mostly on the large clock on the wall, informing her that they had three minutes before the police arrived.

With one minute to spare, Pam shouldered the duffle bag of money, posturing with Harley's gun as she'd shown her, and they escaped out the front door. Once they were out in the sunshine, they sprinted for the car, flinging the bag in first before jumping in themselves. Then Dinah laid her foot down on the gas, and they shot off down the street just as sirens started to wail behind them.

Harley yanked off the Batman cowl once they were a few blocks away, beaming so hard her cheeks hurt.

* * *

Dinah drove them around for a couple of hours, making sure they lost any potential tails per Harley's instructions, and on their way back Downtown they stopped off at a Mega Mart for supplies—groceries, cheap clothes, burner phones, tampons, and a laptop—and picked up a pizza, then returned to the safe house.

Sitting on the couch munching on pizza, they counted out the money they'd taken in from the University District bank. Twenty-thousand dollars, which was nothing to sneeze at but still not enough to pay off anyone who mattered and have something leftover.

"So," Dinah asked around a mouthful of pizza. "What's next?"

Both she and Pam were looking to Harley for an answer to that question. What next? So Harley stood up, throwing her pizza crust into the box as she turned to address her new friends.

"Diamonds," she said simply. "We're going to rob a jewelry store."

_"Jewelry?"_  Pam made a face. "Why?"

"We can keep robbing small banks like the one today," Harley shrugged. "But it'll be the same thing over and over again, and nowhere near a big enough pay off. More work for less gain? That's not smart."

"Why don't we just rob a bigger bank?" Dinah asked.

"We don't have enough men or guns to rob a bigger bank," Harley explained. "And we don't have a safecracker to rob the vaults. But  _jewelry?_  It's all out there on display. A twenty-thousand dollar engagement ring that fits in the palm of your hand? Much better time management."

"But how do we sell the diamonds?" Pam frowned. "It's not like we can buy things with them."

"I have a friend who can help with that," Harley said evasively.

Dinah narrowed her eyes. "I thought all your friends were trying to kill you for stealing Pam?"

"Not all of them," Harley replied slyly.

Later that night, Pam and Harley were sharing a bottle of wine and making up the sofa bed while Dinah grabbed a shower upstairs. Mike Engel was on the nightly news droning on about the rising gang violence and drug-related deaths in Gotham, which Harley was listening to intently. She could feel Pam looking at her, watching her make the bed while her thoughts were obviously elsewhere, and Harley shot her a weak smile, her mind still on the drug war and how the Joker had been right that with Penguin in charge, everything would dissolve into chaos.

She wondered what else he'd had planned that week—what else would he have revealed to the people of Gotham?

"Greg Olsen at the Gotham Globe today writes that the drug war is a direct result of both the Joker and the Batman's attacks on organized crime," Mike Engel was saying, a quote from Olsen's piece appearing in a square beside his head. "Though the Joker has not been seen since last year's Thanksgiving riots, the Batman has returned, prompting some to speculate that these two criminals may be working together."

Harley chuckled under her breath as she sat down on the sofa bed, imagining how thrilled the Joker would be to know the media were suggesting he and the Batman were working together. It was beautiful. He would have loved it. She knew it was a very sympathetic rendering of him, but he was dead, so it didn't particularly matter how she remembered him.

"Are you okay?" Pam asked warily, lowering herself onto the sofa bed and crossing her legs lotus-style.

Harley nodded and grabbed her wine off the side table, taking a sip before she looked at Pam.

"I've just been thinking about him a lot today," she admitted haltingly, feeling like she was taking an unnecessary risk sharing this with Pam, who pressed her lips together like she was trying to figure out how to respond.

"Did you love him?" She asked gently, and Harley laughed.

"I can't really get on board with love," she explained, looking into her wine like there was an answer there. "It just seems childish to me, but... I guess you could say we had a connection. It was always there."

"You mean at Arkham?" Pam set her wine aside. "Kind of like what Vicki Vale wrote in that Mad Love article?"

"Oh,  _no,"_  Harley shook her head fervently. "It wasn't like that at  _all._  Nothing happened until after he was out and even then it was..." She trailed off, trying to explain it in just a few sentences seemed impossible.

"It was what?" Pam frowned, leaning forward intently.

"We were just sleeping together for like, a few weeks," Harley shrugged, knowing she was venturing into the very unfamiliar territory of girl talk, but hoping maybe getting it off her chest would help. "I guess you could say we were seeing each other."

"Seeing each other?" Pam's mouth twitched into a reluctant smile. "Like you were  _dating_  the Joker?"

"You know that period before it gets serious? Before the whole  _relationship_  talk?" Harley glanced at Pam. "When it's just fun, and you're hanging out and having a bunch of great sex?"

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Pam wrinkled her nose. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't know how you could let him  _touch_  you. He hardly looked human."

"He didn't look like that  _all_  the time," Harley grinned. "Without the suit and all the paint he was..." she hesitated, and then laughed quietly. "Well, someone told me people used to call him Pretty Boy but it didn't stick like Joker did."

_"Pretty_ Boy?" Pam's eyes widened. "But what about the scars?"

"I didn't even notice them after meeting him a few times," Harley shrugged, growing nostalgic. "He was just complicated and mysterious and attractive and very...  _generous_  in bed." She fought back a shit-eating grin and Pam's mouth fell open.

"Oh my  _God!_ " She laughed, looking both scandalized and captivated as she leaned in closer. "What was it like?"

"The sex?" Harley could feel her cheeks getting warm as she thought about a few specific moments.

"You're blushing!" Pam crowed, rocking back and forth as they giggled together. "Now you have to tell me."

"It was always really... intense," Harley sighed, looking up at the ceiling. "And it felt very  _personal._  Like he was showing me this side of himself that no one else got to see." She didn't add that she hadn't appreciated it at the time because she'd been paranoid it was all a farce, and in hindsight, that paranoia seemed destructive and excessive. "Everything around us was completely crazy," she continued, "but when we were alone together, it could be the most normal, easy, simple thing."

"How did he die?" Pam asked softly, her eyes turning sympathetic.

Harley sucked in a breath, trying to decide how much to tell Pam. She could feel the words she'd so casually thrown around not so long ago on the tip of her tongue, along with the regret she always felt accompanying them. Regret she had covered up until recently. And more than all of that, she was hesitant to tell Pam because if Harley were capable of killing a person she had feelings for like she'd just described, then maybe Pam would realize Harley wasn't someone she wanted to be around.

Maybe it was better in the long run if Pam knew who she was dealing with.

"I shot him," Harley said, her eyes darting to Pam's face to see how she'd react.

Pam looked a little startled, but she was still the picture of sympathy. The kind of sympathy Harley wasn't always capable of but craved at that moment. She rubbed her eyes, feeling an annoying stinging behind them.

"It's so stupid," she sighed. "We weren't  _together._ It was just a fling. He died six months ago, and I'm still acting like I lost the love of my life."

Pam's eyes widened. "You don't have to answer this," she said slowly, almost hesitantly. "But do you mind if I ask you why?"

"Why I shot him?" Harley exhaled heavily and closed her eyes, again weighing up how much to say. She'd been secretive and closed off all her life. Why was she allowing herself to be vulnerable now? But she wanted to tell Pam, and Harley had decided that she would not force herself to do what she should do, but allow herself to do what she  _wanted_  to do, what felt right.

She told Pam about being locked in the honeymoon suite, and about Victor and what he did to her, and how the Joker had been pissed at her for distracting him from whatever plans he had. How they had fought and Harley had realized he would end up getting her killed even if he didn't do it himself. That she'd felt trapped both emotionally and physically, and she hadn't seen any other way of getting past him except to shoot him.

What Harley didn't say was that she now saw multiple avenues she could have taken that would have ended better. She didn't tell Pam what Bruno said about never seeing the Joker so upset, or how often Harley still dwelled on what that meant. She didn't tell Pam that with hindsight, she suspected the vitriol the Joker directed at her had been at least partially covering genuine concern or whatever version of it he was capable of, even if  _he_  didn't realize it. She didn't tell Pam she missed him.

Instead, she let Pam think she didn't regret killing the Joker, and that she was better off with him dead, as was the rest of the world.

"Sounds pretty toxic," Pam winced.

"He was a psychopath," Harley shrugged. "Not  _just_  a psychopath. I studied them for years, and they're pretty easy to understand, why they do things and how they feel. He was  _so_  much more complicated. But he was still a psychopath, and he probably would have gotten me killed eventually."

"Harley," Pam said gently, and when Harley looked up, Pam was offering her a warm, rueful, slightly  _mischevious_  smile. "I'm really glad I met you."

"Well," Harley offered her a crooked grin. "We'll see how long that lasts."

* * *

They spent a little over a week working out the details of their first diamond heist. Dinah got a trust fund brigade makeover so she could case the inside of the store, taking note of what was on display and where, how many guards there were, how many CCTV cameras and where, how many staff members, and exit and entry strategies. Meanwhile, Harley bought a stack of psychology journals to read up on different therapy approaches that might help Pam tap into the emotions affecting her abilities.

At night, Pam would make dinner, which nearly always included more tofu and butter beans than Harley had ever consumed in her life, as well as a hefty amount of something called 'Dino Kale.'

In just over a week, Pam turned the small window over the kitchen sink into a mini-jungle, her green thumb evident in the rapidly flowering flora. Harley had been right about Pam being an uptight academic loner before her abilities developed, all things Harley identified with too. She also learned more about Pam's environmental activism and her frustration with politicians taking money from the likes of Daggett Industries and Dumas Corps instead of passing legislation necessary to save the planet. Harley had to admit she made valid points on all fronts. They talked about how they might do something about all that once they were set up financially.

Harley slowly began revealing things about herself to Pam too, eventually telling her the long and complicated story of how she'd gone from being a psychologist at Arkham to working for Penguin. Harley told Pam about her childhood in foster care and even about killing her college boyfriend, something she'd only ever told the Joker before. It was just so  _easy,_  not hard work like Harley had found 'friendships' in the past, or impossible to wrap her head around like the closeness she'd felt to the Joker.

In Pam, Harley found a kindred spirit, and most importantly, someone who could keep up with her, a quality she'd never even realized she prized or even longed for in a partner. They also shared a desire to get something  _more_  out of life—something  _different_ —and that motivation along with their similar personality types and backgrounds made Harley and Pam fast friends.

Dinah was less easy to get through to. She was quiet and serious, occasionally dropping hints about herself. She was an orphan like Harley, though she hadn't been lucky enough to stay in the foster care system, let alone finish high school. Dinah subtly hinted that she preferred the company of women, but otherwise didn't reveal anything about herself or her past. Harley considered her a work in progress.

On the morning of the heist they stashed the Honda Uptown and Harley stole a Mercedes to help them blend in in the Diamond District. Dinah drove them to Midtown with Harley and Pam lying down in the back seat, getting ready. Pam had already pulled on her Batman cowl and was meditating, preparing herself for what was to come while Harley had something else in mind. She'd bought a paint pallet from the Mega Mart, and as she laid across the back seat with Pam's sneakers in her face, she applied fresh white paint across her forehead, down her nose, and up each cheek to her ears. Next, she drew two huge black circles around her eyes, bigger and wider than the Joker ever painted his. Then a sloppy red circle around her mouth, contouring her face into something strange and  _unnerving._

And that was the point.

Dinah pulled the car up to the Diamond District boutique they had chosen, small but with at least half a million dollars worth of goods just on the shop floor alone.

Pam sat up, twisting to look out the window while Harley checked the clip on her pistol. They needed more bullets, but to get those, she needed enough cash to pay off certain Russian lackeys to stop them blabbing to Penguin and Yuri. She tucked the gun into the back of her jeans just as Pam turned around to face her.

"Jesus  _Christ!"_  Pam yelped when she saw Harley's painted face. "What are you doing!"

"Trust me," Harley pleaded, pushing the car door open, and she heard Pam huff unhappily as she followed close behind.

There were two guards at the botique's entrance. Harley distracted them with a few quick moves and her warpaint, giving Pam time to connect with each of them and set them on the course she'd plotted. While Pam and Harley cornered and threatened the shop assistants and customers, the guards smashed the display cases under Pam's silent instructions, scooping jewelry into tote bags and handing them over obediently.

Then it was over. They grabbed their bags and bolted for the door, Pam ducking her head down as they passed under the CCTV camera positioned directly above the exit.

But when Harley saw the camera, she skidded to a stop, smirking and wiggling her fingers in cheeky hello to Gordon before she sprinted out of the store.

There were sirens right around the block as they jumped into the back of the stolen Mercedes. Harley landed half on top of Pam as Dinah took off down the street, passing straight by a police cruiser as it sped toward the boutique.

"You were right," Pam panted as she pulled off her Batman cowl. "About the paint. You were right."

Harley laughed quietly, wiping the warpaint off with her shirt.

They exchanged the stolen Mercedes for their inconspicuous Honda and drove back to Joe's apartment where Harley drank a few fingers of gin to calm herself down, and Pam and Dinah enthusiastically recapped what had happened as they sifted through the diamonds.

"So?" Dinah enthused. "What's next?"

"Next I take these to my friend," Harley said, wiping gin from her lips. "Then we figure out the next hit."

They made the news that night, a five-minute segment detailing what had transpired at the Diamond District boutique—skipping over Pam's abilities entirely—with a grainy still of Harley smirking in full warpaint taken from the CCTV camera. Following the nightly news was Arturo Rodriegus's show  _Taking Sides with Arturo!_  where a panel of pundits including Vicki Vale worried about the return of Harley Quinn.

They didn't mention the Joker. Not even once.

Later that night, Harley drove to Grin and Bare It with the diamonds. She was eighty percent sure that Marty wouldn't betray her and turn her over to Penguin, but she came armed and left the girls at home anyway, just in case.

She pulled into the gravel lot beside the club, feeling a constellation of memories wash over her as she headed inside. Grin's was just like it always was, smelly and sticky and full of drunks. Roxy was behind the bar, but Harley sensed Marty was lurking nearby.

When Roxy saw her, her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to shriek a greeting, but Harley pressed her finger to her lips, her eyes darting around at the drunks, and Roxy closed her mouth obediently.

"Harley!" She whispered happily once Harley was close enough, coming around the bar to hug her. "Where the hell have ya been, huh? Marty was freakin' out!"

"It's a long story," Harley rolled her eyes. "How are you?"

"Bored, I guess," Roxy shrugged, looking more unenthusiastic than Harley had ever seen her "I'm just managin' the place these days cause Marty's so busy. It's better than dancin', I guess."

"I know what that's like," Harley made a sympathetic face. "Is Marty around?"

"He's in his office," Roxy said, inclining her head to Marty's supply-closet-sized office, which was unfortunately located beside the always out of order toilet. "Don't leave without sayin' goodbye, okay!"

Harley agreed and accepted another hug before she snuck back to Marty's office, keeping her wits about her as she knocked once and pushed the door open without waiting for a reply. Marty looked up as she slipped through the door and closed it behind her.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, Harley!" He jumped to his feet but stayed behind his cramped desk, his eyes wide as he shook his head. "If Penguin found out you're here..."

"He won't," Harley promised, moving further into the dimly lit office. "I need a favor."

"Aye, I figured as much," Marty said flatly, folding his arms over his chest. "What the fuck is goin' on, eh? You fuck over Penguin and disappear. Now you're robbin' jewelry stores? Don't get me wrong, Penguin's the most irritatin' cunt I ever met in my life, but he's the boss now. And  _you_  made him that way."

Harley rolled her eyes. "Marty, do you know why J wanted Penguin to be in charge?"

Marty's face contorted hearing her use the familiar shortening of the Joker's name. They'd talked about him in passing, but it was a sore subject for both of them, though Marty seemed to have forgiven her for being the one to kill him.

"Penguin's an incompetent mess," she said simply. "The Joker knew he would destroy the mob from the inside. Just look at this war you're in with the Lucky Hand."

"So now you're gonna take down Penguin?" Marty asked in disbelief.

"No," Harley waved him off. "I couldn't give a shit about Penguin or politics or the Lucky Hand. I'm just enjoying working for myself. Is that so much to ask?"

"No, it's not," Marty shook his head. "Everyone knew you were proppin' Penguin up anyway. He woulda folded sooner if he didn't have you whisperin' in his ear."

Harley shrugged, ambivalent about the notion that her talent for mob politics was the only reason Penguin had lasted so long.

"So what's this favor then?" Marty raised an eyebrow and Harley dropped the tote bag full of diamonds on his desk. Marty sent her a quizzical look before plunging his hand inside and pulling out a diamond necklace and two fat rings worth tens of thousands of dollars on their own.

"Fuck  _me_ ," he said, his eyes widening.

"Can you sell these for me?" Harley asked. "You can have ten percent." Marty opened his mouth to contest her offer, but Harley talked over him. "Which we both know means you'll take fifteen," she added flatly.

Marty chuckled at her affectionately. "Ya know me too well, Harley Quinn."

Harley left the diamonds with Marty, her mind already turning over what he'd said about taking out Penguin. She did kind of like the idea of fucking him over with Pam's help... But no, what she'd told Marty about not wanting to get involved in mob politics was the truth. It had only been a couple of weeks, but she had a good thing going with Pam and Dinah. They would make themselves some money and have some fun, and if either of them ever wanted out, that would be just fine with Harley.

She said goodbye to Roxy, hugging her again, and Roxy gave her a sad little wave. Then as Harley started to leave, she stopped and turned back to Roxy, shocked she hadn't thought about it before.

"Hey, Roxy, why don't you come work for me?" Harley grinned. "I promise it'll be  _really_  fun."

* * *

Roxy came home to Joe's apartment with Harley that night, beaming and waving shyly as Harley introduced her to Pam and Dinah. They started planning their next heist the very next morning over breakfast, choosing another boutique in the Diamond District, but this one had a safe in the back purported to contain a pink diamond worth a cool two million dollars.

A week later, it was the day of the heist. They followed the same game plan they had the previous week, stealing a fancy car that would fit in in Midtown to swap out for the Honda when they made their getaway.

Two security guards were flanking the entrance of the boutique while a third guarded the back room on the other side of the store, which they would need to enter to steal the pink diamond from the safe. There were also two customers browsing and two shop assistants helping them. One of the customers saw Harley and Pam before the guards did, her hand flying up to clutch her pearls as she gasped in horror.

Harley again distracted and disarmed the guards to give Pam time to connect with each of them. The first two guards were ready in no time, smashing display cases and collecting jewelry, but Pam struggled with the third. As Harley moved onto wrangling the shop assistants and customers, she heard Pam cry out in frustration, and spun around in time to see the guard she'd been struggling with fall to his knees and slump sideways.

Pam looked down at her hands and then up at Harley, and even behind the Batman cowl covering her face, Harley could see she was rattled.

"Pam!" She shouted to snap her out of it, and Pam shook her head furtively to clear it before joining Harley with the hostages.

"Which one of you can get into the safe?" Harley demanded, pointing her gun first at the female shop assistant, then the male one.

They looked at each other, and then back to Harley.

"Me," the woman said, slowly rising to her feet when Harley urged her forward, keeping her gun trained on her.

Pam took the woman's hand, waiting for the sloppy smile to slide onto her face before she sent Harley a grim look, obviously still unnerved about the unconscious guard.

While Pam and the shop assistant rushed to the back room, Harley stayed with the hostages, eyeing each of them warily. The easiest thing to do would be to shoot them all, but Harley sensed Pam and Dinah wouldn't like her killing innocent bystanders. Collateral damage, she would argue in her defense, but neither of them had the stomach for that. Better to put the extra effort in and keep the hostages alive.

Harley looked up at the gold-framed clock on the wall, watching the second hand make a full circuit of its face, and she started to get antsy. What if Pam's influence had worn off the shop assistant? What if there was some kind of trap back there that Pam couldn't get out of herself? What if Pam needed help?

"Hey," Harley called to one of the guards, inclining her head to the hostages. "Watch them," she snapped, and he drew his gun obediently, leveling it at the hostages. "Shoot them if they try anything," she added, smirking slyly when the pearl-clutcher wailed and fanned herself.

In the backroom, Harley found a small square room containing the safe, which Pam and the shop assistant were kneeling in front of. The shop assistant typed in part of a code on a keypad then pulled back to look at Pam, chewing her lip nervously, before returning to the keypad and trying again.

"She can't remember," Pam explained, uncharacteristically nervous as Harley slipped into the room.

"Did you fry her brain?" Harley demanded, remembering the guard passed out in front of the store.

"I don't know!" Pam sat back on her heels, rubbing her hands together anxiously, which Harley sensed was not going to help the situation.

"Calm down and touch her," Harley coached, trying to stay calm herself. "You're scared right now, and that's okay. Fear is powerful. Lean into it."

Pam nodded, placing her hand on the shop assistant's arm and closing her eyes to concentrate. There was a long silence during which Harley held her breath, then Pam released the shop assistant's arm, and the woman typed in the correct code, and the safe door swung open.

Harley opened her mouth to cheer, but a hand grabbed her arm, whipping her around. It was the unconscious guard, now very much conscious as he flung his fist at her face. Harley blocked it and punched him in the solar plexus, which made him grunt but did nothing to loosen his grip on her arm as he tried to shake her gun loose. Harley held it fast, even as he shoved her up against the wall and wrapped a hand around her throat.

Two fingers appeared on the guard's shoulder, tapping him lightly. He looked back in time to receive a punch to the face, his head snapping to the side. He released Harley so he could turn and face this new threat head-on while Harley fell to her knees, massaging her throat as she looked up to see who had attacked the guard.

It was Dinah.

She threw her right arm into the guard's neck and her left elbow into his chest, then she jumped and kicked him in the head hard enough knock him out. As the guard crumpled to the floor, Dinah landed soundly, her hands gliding into an elegant karate pose, her expression eerily calm.

"Jesus!" Harley rasped as Pam helped her to her feet. "Where the hell did you learn to do that?"

Dinah's arms dropped out of the pose to shrug. "I was fostered in a dojo for a little while. And I like Karate movies."

"You didn't think to tell us?" Harley complained as they rushed out of the backroom and through the store, grabbing the bags of display jewelry off the guards.

Dinah and Pam were out the front door, but Harley lagged behind, looking around for the camera that should have been just beside the entrance. She spotted it and stopped to grin into its lens before breaking into a run out the door.

* * *

Later that night, Harley went to Grin and Bare it to pick up the money from their first haul and drop off their latest, including the pink diamond which Marty spent a solid five minutes staring at with a dreamy look on his face.

"You aren't going to fuck me over, are you?" Harley asked from her perch on the corner of his desk, her arms crossed.

"Don't be so bloody stupid," Marty shot her significant look. "You'd cut my balls off and feed em to me."

Harley laughed at that. She wasn't sure if it was true, but she liked it anyway.

"Penguin's out for your head," Marty told her, placing the pink diamond back in its velvet box and leaning forward on his elbows. "Especially now that the papers are talkin' about you again. Whaddya plan on doin' about him?"

"Nothing," Harley shrugged carelessly. "I don't care what he does."

"Ya won't care til' he's shoving a fuckin' umbrella through yer belly," Marty countered. "He may be an idiot, but he's powerful. The cops, the government, the muscle that don't know no better. All of em' work for Penguin and he's offering two million to whoever can bring you in, Harley."

"So what," Harley rolled her eyes. "I hurt his ego, but this drug war will destroy him before he can get to me."

"Sure, but he's not the only one goin' down with the ship," Marty complained, looking frustrated. "The Lucky Hand are still raiding the cartels' storehouses and shipping routes relentlessly. We went from fifty shipments a month in January to three in May. Three!"

"How's Yuri keeping the cartels happy?" Harley asked, curious but not wanting to wade in too deep.

"He's payin' for the shit that ain't makin' it up here," Marty shook his head. "We'll go broke just trying to keep the cartels from killin' us. It can't go on like this much longer."

"That's too bad," Harley sighed, wondering how things would have panned out for Penguin if he'd got his hands on Pam. Then she grinned at Marty. "Why don't you come work for me, Marty? It turns out I'm a pretty good boss."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, if only I could," Marty slumped behind his desk. "I'm tied up in this shit so tight I've got no way out."

"You'll figure it out," Harley assured him, getting to her feet. "And until you do, just try to enjoy Penguin's pain."

* * *

Harley returned to Joe's apartment with three duffle bags containing half a million dollars in cash from the first batch of diamonds and an idea brewing in the back of her mind. The idea of toying with Penguin without necessarily taking him out completely was vastly appealing to her, and Harley knew just how she'd like to do it.

Roxy and Dinah were shocked when the money spilled out of the bags onto the living room floor, neither of them even daring to dream about having that kind of money at their disposal. They ran their hands over it wide-eyed, thumbing through the bills and laughing incredulously. In the background Mike Engel was reading the news, describing the robbery as a Harley Quinn operation before he launched into a piece about the latest victims in Gotham's drug war.

"I think we should go back to banks," Harley announced abruptly, drawing her friends' attention. She looked at Pam. "Now that we know Dinah can be on the ground with us we need to... branch out."

"Branch out?" Pam lifted a dubious eyebrow.

Branching out included reaching out to some old acquaintances Harley was reluctant to get in touch with, especially now that she knew there was a two million dollar bounty on her head. But Pam's abilities were evolving and developing, and Harley was sure that a bribe combined with Pam would keep her safe. So she and Pam met Nikki the Russian and his partner Sasha—two of the more  _discrete_  Russian arms dealers—at the Murder Dock in South Channel. Pam was nearly vibrating with barely-contained nervous energy as they snuck up behind the Russians, reminding Harley of _her_  first trip to the Murder Dock.

"Hey, Nikki," Harley drawled. She had painted her face for the occasion, and when Nikki and Sasha turned around, both of them recoiled.

"Oh shit, it's Harley Quinn!" Sasha yelped, drawing his gun while Nikki scowled at her.

"What tha fuck you doin' here, eh?" Nikki demanded, his eyes narrowing.

"Listen, I'm just here for business," Harley said, pulling her light jacket aside to show her empty holster while she held up the backpack of money she was carrying. "Give me what I texted you about and we'll be on our way."

"Hey Sasha," Nikki smirked, cocky now that he knew Harley was unarmed. "Didn't Penguin say he pay two million for this bitch?"

"Yeah he fuckin' did, Nikki," Sasha grinned back.

"Jesus," Harley rolled her eyes and glanced at Pam, who nodded once before Harley pulled the gun she was keeping in the back of her jeans and dove for Sasha while Pam took Nikki. Sasha ended up on his ass, his weapon skittering away while Harley pressed the barrel of her gun to his forehead. "Oops," she smirked.

Pam connected with Nikki and then moved on to Sasha, telling them both to give them what they came for and forget seeing them.

"Can you do it for longer?" Harley asked when Pam stepped back from Sasha. "You know, permanently?"

"Permanently?" Pam blinked down at the two dopey looking Russians. "Well, they'll  _forget_  us permanently."

"I know," Harley said, licking her lips before she squatted down in front of Nikki, eyeing him curiously. "What if we want them to remember something else?"

"I guess it could work," Pam mused. "They're sort of hooked into me right now."

"Hey Nikki," Harley bent forward and met the Russian's eye, hyper-aware of Pam listening to what she was about to say. It was impulsive, but after her talk with Marty, her curiosity was piqued. "You're going to find the Lucky Hand's biggest storehouse in Gotham, and then you're going to come tell me where it is and how many guys they have there, okay?"

"Okay," Nikki agreed happily.

"If you hear anything else useful about the Lucky Hand, you come to me. Okay?"

"No problem, boss," Nikki grinned.

"Great," Harley rose back up to her feet, dusting her hands off on her jeans.

"What was that about the lucky thing?" Pam frowned while they watched Sasha and Nikki transfer a few cases of ammunition and firearms from the back of their ostentatious Range Rover to the Honda's trunk.

"Oh, nothing," Harley said evasively. "Just keeping my ear to the ground."

* * *

It took two weeks to plan their next robbery. Harley chose a Ukrainian bank Uptown, a smaller branch of the recently installed Kyiv Financial on Wall Street, a bank she was very familiar with. A bank Penguin, Yuri, Sofia, and Marty were all very familiar with too. A bank that would make Penguin go  _nuclear_  if it got robbed.

She explained to the girls that it would be more heavily guarded than anything they'd come up against thus far, but she didn't tell them it would be so heavily guarded because it was a mob bank. And she  _definitely_  did not tell them she was the one who had arranged for it to become a mob bank.

Dinah and Roxy cased the place a handful of times over those two weeks, confirming that there were four guards, six tills, and around twenty customers depending on the time of day. Harley and Dinah trained together daily, and Harley quickly realized that if she wanted to, Dinah could easily kick her ass. Dinah really knew how to fight while Harley was just a gymnast with a few moves up her sleeve. She could evade Dinah's attacks quickly enough, but she was always on the defensive, never able to actually touch her unless Dinah allowed it.

Pam continued to work on developing her abilities, which to everyone's surprise, included being able to sense Nikki and Sasha even two weeks later.

"It's like they're still hooked into me," Pam tried to explain the night before the robbery. "I don't know if it's because you gave them explicit instructions to carry out or if I'm just getting stronger and can hold onto them for longer."

Harley frowned. "Are they doing what I told them to do?"

Pam nodded. "That's  _all_  they're doing."

"Can you  _will_  them into doing something else?" Harley pushed. "From here, without speaking to them?"

"I already have," Pam bit her lip. "I told them not to get caught."

Harley pursed her lips, thinking fast. "Have them come here. Tonight."

"What?" Pam hissed incredulously. " _Why_?"

"Two well-armed men who do everything you tell them to do?" Harley made a sweeping gesture with her arm. "Why wouldn't we want them on our side tomorrow?"

"Harley has a good point," Dinah observed. She was sitting on the floor, having her hair elaborately braided by Roxy. "We could use more men."

Pam agreed reluctantly and inhaled a deep, cleansing breath as she closed her eyes while the others watched. She tilted her head to the left, lifting her chin, and then her eyes opened.

"They're coming now," she said cautiously. "They know not to be followed."

"Wow," Roxy's eyes were huge as she finished Dinah's hair. "Ya can talk to em' just like that? Across the city?"

"It's not like talking to them," Pam said, looking embarrassed. "It's like... I am them. Like they're both an extension of me."

Harley found this  _very_  interesting. Bribes and threats only went so far. Taking away someone's free will, on the other hand, that went farther than anything the mob or the Lucky Hand could ever hope to do.

A few hours later, Dinah and Roxy had gone to bed while Harley and Pam remained in the living room, discussing the 'drones,' as they'd settled on calling the Russians. Nikki and Sasha turned up at midnight, dopey smiles lighting up their faces when they saw Pam behind Harley at the front door.

"Alright, alright," Harley grumbled, grabbing Nikki's arm and dragging him over the threshold and down the hall to the kitchen while Sasha trundled along behind them. She pushed Nikki into a chair at the small kitchen table and sat across from him, ignoring Pam and Sasha as they sat too.

"How's Penguin doing?" Harley asked grimly, hyper-aware of Pam just as she'd been at the Murder Dock the last time she'd talked to the drones.

"Ah, man," Nikki sneered. "Everybody sick of that fuckboy. Nobody been paid in weeks."

Harley snorted, amused by this very accurate depiction of Penguin. "What about Yuri?"

"Noone been paid, not even Yuri. He can't fuckin' stand Penguin," Nikki shook his head. "But what can he do? Penguin is kingpin. He control every part of the city."

"How are they dealing with the Lucky Hand?" Harley pressed, ignoring Pam when she clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

"What can we do?" Nikki shrugged helplessly. "We pain' those Mexican fucks off, we send boys down to the border to help the cartels, but they come back in pieces, we raiding their shipments here but they don't stop. They killin' our boys, they killin' our cops, they attackin' the cartels, and now they burnin' down all our shit here in Gotham too."

"Have you found any of the Hand's storehouses?" Harley asked. "To retaliate?"

"Not for months," Nikki spat. "They got fuckin'  _ninjas,_  man. They hide like some crouching tiger shit."

"Wait, hang on," Pam interrupted, and Nikki obediently shut his mouth as Pam narrowed her eyes at Harley over the kitchen table. "What are you doing?" She demanded.

"I'm gathering information," Harley replied evasively, even though Nikki had yet to tell her something she didn't already know.

"Why do you keep asking him about this Lucky Ham thing?" Pam insisted. "First at the dock, now this? What is it?"

"The Lucky _Hand_  are a gang of heroin dealers," Harley explained, thinly veiling her irritation over being forced to explain, but also knowing she was being willfully stupid to think she'd be able to get around telling Pam. "They're on the other side of the mob's drug war. They have the good heroin. The mob has the bad heroin. It's been a problem for a long time, and now it's turned into a full-on war under Penguin."

"What does the mob's drug war have to do with us?" Pam frowned, and when Harley didn't reply Pam leaned forward, moving to place her hand on Harley's bare forearm, but Harley slapped her away before she could touch her. "I wasn't going to do it!" Pam hissed, keeping her voice low and looking distraught. "Jesus, Harley. What aren't you telling me?"

"Fine," Harley huffed unhappily, dreading how this would go down. " _Fine_. The bank we're robbing tomorrow. It's a mob bank."

Pam stared at Harley over the table, bemused. "I don't even know what that means," she scoffed at length.

"It means they launder their drug money into it," Harley elaborated tersely. "It means we're fucking over the mob tomorrow."

" _Why?"_  Pam's voice rose a few octaves as her eyes widened incredulously. "Why are we trying to piss off the  _mob_?"

"Because they're  _assholes_ ," Harley sputtered. "All of them, on  _both_  sides."

Pam pressed her lips together and sat back in her chair, her eyes sliding over Nikki and Sasha thoughtfully.

"You want to stop the drug war?" She finally asked, and Harley struggled not to roll her eyes at the _sentiment_  behind Pam's words.

"That may be a side effect," she admitted, her face souring. "I just want to see Penguin  _squirm._ "

"Well, that's why  _I'm_  doing it," Pam stood up, lifting her chin imperiously. "Heroin dealers? Money launderers? Screw it, let's take them all down."

Harley's eyes widened in surprise, a smile blossoming on her face. "Yeah," she agreed cheerfully.  _"Screw_  it."

* * *

Negotiating with Pam over what to tell Dinah and Roxy was a pain in the ass, but by morning Harley agreed to let Pam tell them they were on a crusade to take down drug dealers, though she thought Pam was displaying a substantial amount of cognitive dissonance after what she'd heard Harley say the night before. Pam knew this wasn't a righteous crusade for Harley, but if Pam needed to justify it to herself that way, so be it.

Harley didn't know what was going on beneath the surface there, but she suspected Pam's evolving abilities were behind it. Pam wanted to explore her powers. Pam  _wanted_  power. Harley was happy to give it to her.

She just hoped she didn't get caught up in some kind of hive-mind pool of emotion tied to Pam like the environmental activists during the riots.

There were still many things that Harley had not told the girls, namely her role in setting up the mob bank, her role in the corruption of the GCPD, her role in propping up Penguin and squeezing the Lucky Hand for the sake of making her employer more money. Harley filled Pam in on these details, but they both decided the other girls knew all they needed to, and the next day, they pulled off a bank robbery netting them over three-quarters of a million dollars in one afternoon, proving to Harley that delegating information was a crucial art.

Later, Harley sent Nikki and Sasha on their way with more detailed orders.

"If any of your friends who hate Penguin are looking for a better job, you tell us, and we'll meet them," Harley said, staring into Nikki's eyes. "Understand?"

"Yes, boss," Niki nodded swiftly.

* * *

Personally, Sofia was a bit miffed that Harley had stolen from them, but watching Penguin react—throwing bottles of wine at the wall and screaming his head off—she could more than understand why Harley had done it. Sofia would pay good money to see Penguin brought to his knees, especially at the hands of Harley Quinn. And in any case, at least it was only a small branch of Kyiv Financial and not their main headquarters on Wall Street where the  _real_  money was.

It was dawn when Sofia slid into the back of her Towncar, barking at the driver to take her home as she thought over the mess she'd just seen. Penguin was rapidly losing control, and even more rapidly losing their money. It was only a matter of time before he folded or someone killed him. Maroni had been dead six months, and already, power was about to change hands if the whole structure didn't fall apart entirely first.

Sofia was even considering moving her family back to Milan, where life was easy. They still had their home on the shores of Lake Grenada where she could watch her children swim with the offspring of Hollywood starlets. Gotham had become too dystopian for her taste.

She mulled over this idea of abandoning Gotham as she rode the private elevator to her penthouse, thinking perhaps she would speak to Vito about it that morning. But when she passed through her front door into the penthouse foyer, she was greeted with her sons' happy laughter over multiple voices she didn't recognize, and all her thoughts of returning to Italy evaporated.

Sofia dashed through the foyer and reception rooms into the living room, stopping short at what she saw there. Two young blonde women were playing with Sofia's children on the living room floor, both boys looking delighted by their company. Vito was slumped on the Italian leather sofa with a stupid smile on his face like he was drunk. To his left was a redhead who had her eyes closed as her hand rotated in mid-air, her fingers curling and uncurling, and lounging to Vito's right was none other than Harley Quinn.

"What the hell is going on!" Sofia demanded, her heart leaping in her throat. Her family appeared to be in a trance as if they'd been drugged or hypnotized. "What have you done to them!"

"Sofia, they're fine," Harley said gently, rising to her feet and crossing the living room. "We need to talk."

"What have you done to my family?" Sofia hissed as Harley drew closer. She was wearing skinny jeans and Breton stripe top, her blonde hair tied up in a sloppy ponytail like she was on her day off from being a treasonous clown bitch.

"Just hear me out," Harley smiled, and pointed to each of the women behind her in turn. "That's Dinah and Roxy, and that's Pam. Pam is the weapon Penguin was after."

Sofia's nostrils flared as she looked at the redhead again, trying to comprehend what was happening before her very eyes.

"Can we talk?" Harley asked, her smile dissipating. "Please?"

"Fine," Sofia ground out, not seeing what else she could do. "You've made a bloody mess of things," she added bitterly.

"I know," Harley nodded and followed Sofia down the hall to her office where they'd met for the first time six months earlier.

"Who is that woman?" Sofia demanded once the office door was closed. "You can't just come in here and...  _control_  my children!"

"She's not controlling them," Harley said, pushing her bangs off her face, and Sofia couldn't help thinking she looked healthy and well-rested, her cheeks a little fuller, her eyes brighter.

"What the hell is she doing then!" Sofia sputtered furiously. "If she's a weapon..."

"Pam can make emotional connections with people by touching them," Harley explained gently, leaning against Sofia's desk. "She's able to control their behavior through their emotions. Not  _mind_  control exactly, but... she can make them do what she wants."

"Will it hurt them?" Sofia asked after a pause, and Harley shook her head 'no.'

"I wanted you to see what we're capable of before we spoke," she explained.

"And the other two? Who are they?" Sofia demanded, her pulse beginning to slow as she realized her family wasn't in immediate danger. That this was just a show of force intended to get her to comply. Harley Quinn had another thing coming if she thought Sofia Falcone would bend to her will that easily.

Harley folded her arms and sighed, her eyes shooting off to the left. "One of them is a stripper. The other is a homeless orphan from the Narrows." She offered Sofia a slanted smile. "I'm sorry if we scared you."

Sofia's eyes widened, unsure what to make of an _apology_  coming from Harley. An apology? From one of the most ruthless, duplicitous women Sofia had ever met?

"You seem... happy," Sofia observed awkwardly.

"I am," Happy grinned, her blue eyes lighting up. "It's incredibly freeing to be out from under all the bullshit."

"Yes, I can see that," Sofia nodded, and dropped into one of the sleek but uncomfortable white armchairs in front of her desk, kicking off her stilettos and running a hand over her forehead. "So, why are you here?"

Harley lowered herself into the chair opposite Sofia, her smile fading as her expression grew serious.

"Penguin put a two million dollar hit on my head," she said slowly, meeting Sofia's gaze. "I obviously have to take him out."

"Obviously," Sofia laughed lightly, shaking her head. Harley really was one of a kind.

"I also made a promise to you once, and I intend to keep it," Harley continued grimly, making Sofia's head snap up. "But after that, I want out," Harley added.

Here she was, once again offering Sofia what she wanted more than anything else in the world. The reason she had returned to Gotham. Her birthright as her father's only worthy heir. In the eighteen months that Sofia had been back in Gotham, she had seen her father's business maimed beyond recognition but not yet destroyed. Harley may have been unpredictable and vicious, but there was something undeniably  _inspiring_  about her too. Something that made Sofia believe in her now as she had in November.

"What do you suggest?" Sofia asked quietly.

"Pam and I will take care of the Lucky Hand," Harley said, her eyes glittering as she spoke. "But we need a safecracker and an alarm specialist by next week... when we rob Kyiv Financial on Wall Street."

Sofia threw back her head and laughed at the absurdity of what she was suggesting.

"You mean you want me to help you rob us all blind?" She laughed again, shaking her head.

"Don't pretend you need that money," Harley lifted an amused eyebrow. "You have patents on your name in China and Korea, and a private company valuable enough to be publicly traded."

Sofia pursed her lips sourly, unable to argue against Harley's point that it wasn't necessarily  _money_  that mattered now.

"But I will make sure you and Marty and Yuri all get your money back," Harley continued solemnly. "Once Penguin's gone."

"Yuri will never go for this," Sofia scoffed.

"Yes, he will," Harley bit back instantly, her gaze steely and unwavering. "Sometimes, to build something new, you have to burn everything to the ground."

Sofia felt a shiver roll up her spine at that intensity in Harley's eyes and the sentiment behind what she said. It gave Sofia deja vu that she couldn't shake off.

"My god," she nearly whispered. "You sound just like him."

Harley's jaw tensed as she visibly tried to control her reaction to Sofia's words, blinking rapidly, her bottom lip wobbling. Sofia's eyes widened, taken aback by this show of emotion and what it meant. It meant that she had underestimated what had happened between Harley and the Joker. Woefully underestimated it by the look on Harley's face.

Then Harley shook her head and pushed forward.

"No one is getting paid," she said, her voice steady and confident. "Penguin will take you all down with him. Yuri may not like it now, but he will in the long run."

"And what will you do when this is over?" Sofia asked warily.

"I don't know, and I don't care," Harley replied, a smile sliding back onto her lips though her eyes remained troubled. "A little chaos helps things become clearer."

"Yes," Sofia said warily, again thinking how similar Harley sounded to her dead paramour. Was it intentional? Was she imitating him in death? Or was it possible that she had evolved into this version of herself all on her own? "Perhaps it will," Sofia added.

"I need you to trust me, Sofie," Harley said, leaning forward with her big, earnest blue eyes shining. "I need you to believe in me."

"I do," Sofia conceded reluctantly, though she knew it probably made her a fool. "I'll have contact details for you by the weekend."

Harley's face split into an affectionate grin, one Sofia had never seen on her face before. She'd seen sullen and miserable, coy and seductive, calculating and cruel, but she'd never seen this affectionate sweetness Harley was showing Sofia right now.

She wondered if the Joker had ever seen her like this before he died, and as Sofia had so often wondered about him, how it would have made him feel.

"Here," Harley handed Sofia a burner phone from her back pocket as they both rose to their feet. "My number is the only one saved."

Sofia took the phone from her, nodding reluctantly and already knowing she would go through with it. Because she did believe in Harley, and she believed Harley was likely the only person who could get her what she wanted.

Harley pushed open the office door, preparing to leave when Sofia stopped her.

"You know, when Zsasz took you... the Joker begged me to help him find you," she said quickly.

Harley froze halfway over the threshold, her shoulders stiffening as she slowly rotated around to stare at Sofia, her expression blank.

"He got down on his knees," Sofia continued gently. "And he begged me to help him save you."

Harley's lips curled into an ugly sneer and she blinked hard, like she was struggling to control her emotions, let alone hide them.

"I saved  _myself_  from Zsasz," she said bitterly, still blinking furiously. "But the Joker is dead and none of that matters anymore."

Sofia felt sympathy bleed into her expression as Harley spun away and stormed out, the wrathful Harley Quinn back in full force as she stomped down the hallway and snapped at her friends that it was time to go.

How strange Harley was, and how similar to the man she'd loved and murdered.

* * *

Over the week that followed Harley and Pam were called out to various seedy alleyways all over Gotham. Nikki and Sasha had been busy recruiting, and by the day of the Wall Street job, they had fifteen goons under Pam's influence, ranging from Irish hitmen to Russian arms dealers to Puerto Rican thugs. Pam said she could feel all fifteen of them, like the arms of an octopus, and she could control them individually or as a group.

Five of them came along to rob the Wall Street bank, in addition to Sofia's safecracker and an alarm specialist to buy them more time as they robbed the vault.

They brought home forty-three million dollars, which physically took up almost every available inch of space they had left at Joe's apartment, nearly squeezing them out of an already compact living space.

Then the night after the robbery, something incredibly fortuitous happened. There was a skirmish at Gotham Harbor between corrupt cops raiding the Chinese heroin shipments and the Lucky Hand's enforcers. Nikki and Sasha were there too, aiding the police on Penguin's payroll, and somehow, they managed to subdue one of those Lucky Hand enforcers, throw him in the trunk of their car, and transport him Downtown to Pam and Harley.

"We brought you something very nice, Ms Isley," Sasha said, grinning stupidly at Pam as he popped the trunk of his car.

Inside was an Asian man with his wrists and ankles duct-taped together, and his mouth taped closed. He was dressed all in black, and his eyes were blazing as he lurched around inside the trunk, trying to free himself.

"Who's this?" Pam asked Sasha.

"He a cobra," Sasha explained dreamily. "Motherfuckin' ninja."

"Ninja, huh," Harley smirked, peering down at the man as he snarled behind the tape covering his mouth. "Pam, take care of our Ninja friend."

"With pleasure," Pam chuckled, reaching into the trunk to touch the man's face. He continued to thrash until Pam got her palm securely on his cheek, then his body relaxed completely, the need to fight draining out of him. He gazed up at Pam, looking dazzled as Sasha cut the tape binding his wrists and ankles.

"What's your name?" Pam asked, holding out her hand to the man, who took it tentatively, sitting up before allowing her to help him out of the trunk.

"My name is Wan," he said in choppy English.

"Would you like some water, Wan?" Pam smiled, and Wan practically melted into the earth under the power of her smile.

They headed back into the house, Wan holding Pam's hand and beaming as they followed Harley down the hall to the kitchen with Sasha and Nikki bringing up the rear. Joe's small kitchen was packed with duffle bags full of cash, stacked from floor to ceiling and hanging off every available surface.

"We've  _got_  to get a bigger place," Harley muttered as she squeezed herself into the kitchen and the others followed suit. Dinah and Roxy lingered in the hallway, watching this strange new man, _Wan_  the  _Ninja_ , as he sat down and accepted a glass of water before Pam started to ask him questions.

"Who do you work for?"

"Cobras," Wan said quickly. "We protect Boss Ling."

"Boss Ling?" Pam lifted an eyebrow and looked at Harley, but before Harley could explain about the organization of the Lucky Hand, Wan jumped in, telling Pam everything Harley already knew and more.

He told them about the three bosses, Ling, Tzu and Lau, and their small army of enforcers, who Wan reverently believed were each worth twenty Cosa Nostra thugs in a fight. He told them about their hierarchy of bosses, distributors, and dealers. He told them about their connections to Hong Kong. He told them how they took pride in their secrecy, and that it made them stronger than the mob who operated in plain sight. He told them about storehouses for their products and storehouses for their money. And best of all, he told them about a meeting set up for the next night between Boss Ling's two sons and one of their top distributors.

They let Wan go around dawn when they felt they'd gotten everything they could out of him. Pam was exhausted, but Harley was buzzing, already planning how they would play this information.

* * *

The sun was setting as two black Range Rovers met on a long dock boarded by shipping containers. Not the Murder Dock, but one almost identical to it in the vastness of South Channel.

Harley had her back pressed up against the side of a shipping container, checking the magazine on her modified automatic as one of the Range Rovers rolled past and came to a stop. Nikki stood beside her, silent and waiting for her signal as they listened to multiple car doors open and their occupants climb out, and one cocky voice greeted another more muted voice in Cantonese.

Harley peered around the side of the container to see the backs of two men in linen suits—the Ling brothers—each of them flanked by two Lucky Hand guards dressed in black despite the humid summer air. One of them was Wan, standing to attention just like his colleagues. Across from them was a much larger man wearing cargo shorts and a polo shirt. He was the distributor, and two more guards in black flanked him. It was becoming clear that these guards—Wan included—were the 'ninjas' the Russians were always complaining about. Highly trained gang members seemed more accurate.

The men appeared to be making small talk, and as Harley waited for Pam to act, anticipation began rippling through her stomach, making it hard to stand still.

Any moment now...  _any_  moment...

Wan moved fast when Pam told him to. He drew his pistol and shot both of the guards flanking the distributor. The Ling brothers and the distributor all jumped back, shouting as confusion broke out. Two of the Lings' three remaining guards rushed Wan, slamming him up against the side of the shipping container and disarming him. Wan was struggling to fight them off when Dinah dropped down from her hiding place above them, grabbing a guard by the hair and smashing his face into the shipping container before punching him in the ribs.

The guard spun around, briefly putting Dinah on the defensive before she surged back at him, her arms and legs flying with poetic precision. Wan fought off his attacker too, engaging him with all the ferocity that Pam had imbued him with.

The Lings and the distributor backed away from the fighting, their last remaining guard shielding them. The distributor turned to run back to his car, moving out of Harley's line of sight, but she heard Sasha grunt as he collided with the him, and she could almost picture him holding the distributor in place as Pam connected with him.

The Lings and their last remaining guard turned to flee back to their Range Rover, but Harley and Nikki intercepted them first. Nikki took out the last guard with three bullets to the chest while Harley kept her gun trained on the brothers. Behind them, she saw Dinah throwing everything she had at one guard while Pam took over the one Wan was holding down.

"Going somewhere?" Harley quipped, her eyes drifting between the brothers.

"Harley Quinn!" the brother on the left gasped, just as Wan, the distributor and the two guards came up behind them with dopey smiles on their faces, Dinah, Pam, and Sasha trailing behind them.

The brother on the right shouted at his men in Cantonese, informing Harley he would be less easy to manage. She shot him, sending his brother into a screaming fit of rage until Pam slapped her hand down on his neck. His mouth fell open and his eyes widened, then his face slackened into a lovesick smile despite his twin brother lying dead at his feet.

"That was easy," Harley grinned around at their group, her eyes landing on Dinah. "You and Sasha go check this guy's car. See if there's anything worthwhile in it."

Dinah nodded, her eyes lingering on the bodies before she headed for the distributor's Range Rover with Sasha on her heels.

"Wan," Harley said once Dinah was far enough away. "Bring me Mr Ling's head."

Wan nodded obediently, pulling a knife with a serrated blade from his belt and squatting down beside the dead brother. Pam turned away with a surprised gasp when Wan started sawing through the man's neck while Harley watched dispassionately.

"What the hell are you doing!" Pam hissed as Wan stood up, holding the severed head by the hair, offering it to Harley.

"This is what the Lucky Hand  _do,"_  Harley said pointedly, finding Pam's sentiment unnecessary. She was fine with Harley killing the man but drew the line at cutting off his head when he was already dead? "They take their enemies' heads. Besides, we have a friend who needs to see this."

"Who?" Pam demanded as Dinah and Sasha returned with a huge duffle bag in tow.

Dinah's eyes widened when she saw the decapitated body lying at Harley's feet, but she kept her mouth shut.

"Find anything good?" Harley asked them, pulling her phone from her blazer and sending off a quick text to Roxy to let her know it was time to go.

"Yes, boss," Sasha grinned, hunkering down beside the duffle bag and unzipping it. Inside were yellow bricks with Chinese characters printed on the front—heroin —packed beside stacks of cash that must have amounted to a few hundred grand.

Harley grinned and had Wan add the head to the bag just as Roxy pulled up in their beat-up old Honda.

"Everythin' go okay?" Roxy asked cheerfully, leaning out the window.

"You know what, we haven't had a girls' night out in a while," Harley smirked around at their ragtag group of 'ninjas,' Russian thugs and her friends. That anticipation she'd felt before was still swooping through her, and the night wasn't over yet. "Let's go _dancing_."

"Dancing?" Dinah lifted a wary eyebrow, and Harley nodded.

"I think it's time we upgraded our transportation too," she continued, gesturing for Roxy to get out of the Honda.

Nikki and Sasha took care of the Honda, letting it sink slowly into the bay with the bodies in its trunk. The Lucky Hand drones took the distributors' car with explicit instructions to blame Penguin for losing their boss's sons. The rest piled into the spare Range Rover, Harley directing Sasha to drive them Downtown.

But they didn't go back to Joe's house. Instead, they climbed out of the car at the nightclub the Russians ran their business out of.

Sasha and Nikki snuck the girls in through a back entrance, which was shuddering with the pounding of techno beats. They pushed through the crowd of dancers toward a VIP area guarded by two of Yuri's men, both of whom stepped aside, assuming Nikki and Sasha had brought the girls for more lascivious purposes than making a deal.

To her right, Harley could feel Pam pressed close to her side, almost vibrating with uncertainty while Dinah remained calm and silent on her left. Harley glanced sideways at Pam, and nearly stopped short seeing her worrying her bottom lip anxiously rather than projecting her typical acerbic confidence. Harley felt uneasiness roll through her, sensing this uncharacteristic mood wasn't only due to their current situation.

Pam's eyes darted to Harley, taking note of her obvious concern, and quickly shook her head to clear it before she leaned in.

"What are we doing?" she shouted in Harley's ear.

"Business," Harley shouted back, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling plaguing her. "Trust me," she added.

At the top of the stairs, Harley spotted Yuri sitting on a squashy couch, flanked by scantily clad women. He was drinking straight from a bottle of vodka, but when he saw Harley heading for him with her entourage in tow, he threw it down and jumped to his feet, his face twisting bitterly. His men lunged forward, but Harley held up the duffle bag before they reached her, stopping them in their tracks.

Yuri met her gaze, his beady eyes darting between the bag and her face suspiciously, and Harley smirked as she tossed the bag down on the couch and waited for Yuri to find out what was inside.

The music pulsing around them ticked up a few notches as Yuri discovered heroin, money and the head of one of his enemies in the bag. He turned slowly to face Harley again, and when she quirked her eyebrows at him suggestively, a grin began to grow on his face as he realized what was happening. Then he opened his arms wide and closed the distance between them, enveloping her in a huge bear hug and slapping her on the back.

"Harley fuckin' Quinn!" He crowed jubilantly, making Harley laugh as he continued to slap her on the back and lavish her with praise in Russian and English.

She saw Dinah and Pam look at each other and shrug while Roxy let one of the Russian thugs dance with her.

It might not have been a real girls' night, but they were undoubtedly celebrating something.

* * *

The next afternoon Harley and Pam squeezed into the kitchen to make coffee that would hopefully help their hangovers after a night of drinking vodka. Dinah and Roxy were still asleep upstairs, and their new roommate, the droned Ling brother they'd settled on calling Mini Ling, was sleeping in the bathtub, a duffle bag of stolen cash operating as his pillow.

"We have got to get a bigger place," Pam complained, wiggling her way into a chair at the small table.

"Agreed," Harley said, rubbing her forehead.

"So... that man last night, Yuri," Pam said cautiously. "He's the head of the Russian mafia?"

"Yep," Harley replied, equally cautious as she eyeballed Pam. She had been waiting for this discussion since she made the snap judgment to bring Yuri into the fold. Pam would want to know more, and she would be morally compromised, but Harley was almost looking forward to seeing how it would all pan out.

"I thought we were taking down all the drug dealers?" Pam shifted awkwardly. "But... last night it seemed more like you were getting into business with  _different_  drug dealers."

"We can't take them both on at once," Harley said, which wasn't a complete lie.

"So you're planning on betraying the Russians once we get rid of the Lucky Hand?" Pam pushed, not looking convinced.

Harley pursed her lips thoughtfully, remembering her promise to Sofia. She had made both Sofia and Pam different promises, but there was room for maneuvering in both of those. Ultimately, Harley hadn't decided what she would do aside from roll with the punches, but she also didn't want to lie to Pam.

"We'll get rid of Penguin and the Lucky Hand," Harley said slowly, meeting Pam's eye. "But there will always be a mafia in Gotham. Maybe  _we_  should be the ones who decide who gets to lead it."

Harley nearly held her breath as she watched Pam think her suggestion over. It wasn't what they originally agreed on, but Pam's lack of a reaction to four bodies the night before told Harley that her opinion on  _unsavory_  acts was evolving. She, like Harley before her, was coming to see and accept the violence of the world for what it was. And Harley had not failed to notice that this acceptance seemed to increase with each new drone Pam made. Her power was making her more inclined to...  _flexibility_  on her moral compass.

Fascinating.

"Who do you have in mind?" Pam asked warily.

"How about Sofia Falcone?" Harley suggested lightly, her eyes widening when Pam's lips spread into a mischievous smirk.

"Harley Quinn: Queenmaker," she waggled her eyebrows, making Harley throw her head back and laugh in delight.

"Yeah?" Harley asked, grinning stupidly.

"Yeah," Pam agreed, her green eyes glittering. "Let's make Sofia the Queen."

* * *

They spent the rest of the day debriefing Mini Ling, who filled in a lot of the gaps from Wan's testimony and then some.

Things began to move very quickly from there. Finding new accommodation was paramount now that there were five of them living in a one-bedroom apartment, but in the meantime, they found an abandoned office block Downtown and used one of its less decrepit office spaces to work from.

By the end of the week, they had a map of Gotham up on the office wall, red circles marking where the Lucky Hand's storehouses were, big and small. The strategy was simple. They would squeeze the Triad in Gotham until they were forced to retreat from the southern border and face them at home, leaving the cartels' shipping routes free to trade. It would help Yuri and Sofia's business, and drive Penguin crazy with paranoia over being out of the loop.

Yuri gave Harley the Odessa gang to operate as their muscle, men who wouldn't need to be droned to work for them. He also introduced Harley to a short, stocky man named Sergey who stank of tobacco and tended to smoke filterless cigarettes and chew snuff at the same time. Sergey was an expert in explosives, and he would aid Harley and Pam in the destruction of the Lucky Hand's storehouses.

They started with a hulking, unused freighter that had been moored in Gotham Harbor for at least a decade. The Hand's enforcers who already answered to Pam killed or replaced their former colleagues, and then the Odessas moved in to set charges with drums of gasoline. It took about forty-eight hours to set up.

Harley stood on the thirtieth floor of the Prewitt building, an uncompleted Crowne project that looked out over the bay, a detonator in her hand. Pam stood to her right, Nikki and Sasha to her left, while Dinah taught Roxy self-defense moves a few feet behind them.

"This is same building Joker was caught on," Nikki said suddenly, making Sasha chuckle. "Batman leave him here hanging by his ankle. Fuckin' freak."

Something awful rolled across Harley's shoulders as she realized that almost one year ago, the Joker had been standing where she was now, waiting for one of the ferries to blow up as they had discussed so many times at Arkham. She bit down on her bottom lip, the unfairness of him  _lingering_  even now making her sick as she turned the key on the detonator and pressed the red button.

There was a blast on the other side of the bay, and Harley watched numbly as a series of explosions went off where the freighter was mored, sinking the vessel and all of the heroin stored onboard. Harley watched it sink below the water, the sickness sticking with her, ruining her ability to enjoy this moment of triumph.

Then her phone rang. It was Sofia, and she had a surprise for them.

* * *

The surprise was a six-bedroom penthouse with a swimming pool on the top floor of a refurbished warehouse on the east side of Downtown.

"How'd ya find this place?" Roxy grinned as she dipped her toes in the rooftop pool.

"A friend from Milan is holidaying in Croatia this year," Sofia explained drolly.

"Ooh, fancy!" Roxy teased her, making Sofia crack one of her rare smiles though she tried to hide it as she turned to Harley.

"How do you feel our...  _purge_  of the Lucky Hand is going so far?" She asked, lifting one critical eyebrow.

"Sergey's got the Odessas rigging up a few of their storehouses on the Eastside, and we've got one of their boss's sons," Harley inclined her head toward Mini Ling, who was mixing up a jug of Mai Tai's at the pool bar. "I give them a month max before they're groveling."

"Excellent," Sofia purred, glancing sideways at Harley. "I have a favor to ask you."

"What kind of favor?" Harley narrowed her eyes.

"Janice Porter," Sofia explained solemnly. "I think it better to get the DA's office on our side before Penguin folds..."

"I'm not getting involved in the politics," Harley shook her head. Just because Sofia asked nicely didn't make doing her dirty work any different than doing Penguin's.

"Darling, she knows you," Sofia pushed. "She trusts you... or at least she's scared of you..."

Harley pushed her bangs off her face and looked out at the sun setting over Gotham's Eastside, contemplating what she was being asked.

"Fine," she agreed at length. "I'll take care of it tonight..."

"Will you have Pam turn her into one of your..." Sofia searched for the right word.

"Drones," Harley supplied and made a face. "Nah, where's the fun in that?"

That night Harley went to City Hall alone, knowing the DA would be there late. She broke in through the second floor, avoiding the security stationed on the ground floor, and made her way to Jancie's office with her warpaint on.

It didn't take much to convince the DA whose side she should be on.

When Harley returned to their new penthouse, there were trunks and garment bags waiting for her in their lavish new living room. Roxy and Dinah were digging through the trunks, pulling out chiffon, silk, and lace. Sofia Falcone's Spring/Summer collection in full.

There was also a garment bag with a note pinned to it for Harley.

_'Harley Quinn deserves a suit of her own_ ,' the note read.

Inside the garment bag, Harley found a sleek black suit tailored to her size. Slim high waisted trousers, a tuxedo jacket with sharp shoulder pads, and a white silk shirt, as well as a pair of stilettos in Sofia's preferred stilt-like height.

Harley laughed and showed the suit to Pam, who said, "Oh... that's  _very_  you."

* * *

It was hotter than usual for July, and the University Park was packed with students lounging in the sun. A group of young men playing soccer had abandoned their shirts while their friends laid out on beach towels and blankets, the spirit of youth and naivete ripe in the air.

Vicki scanned the park, trying to pick out the bench where her new source had offered to meet her. The tone of the email she'd received the night before from 'Ann' made Vicki think this source was well-educated—perhaps she worked for the university?—and confident in her information on the drug war, and apparently unconcerned about meeting in broad daylight. Vicki wasn't sure what to make of the latter, but when she finally found the bench, she knew at least her first assumption about 'Ann' being a university employee was wrong.

Sitting on the bench closest to the cafe on the park corner was a blonde woman, a set of heavy bangs and a pair of oversized sunglasses largely obscuring her face. Despite the heat, she wore a trim black suit with stiletto heels that made her stand out more than any sane source would want to.

It didn't feel right to Vicki, and she found herself resisting even though the sliver of information she'd received over email the night before had been tantalizing. A mob at war with Chinese gangs over heroin? There had been an on-going addiction crisis in Gotham for  _years_ , and to shed more light on where the problem came from would be Globe-worthy news.

Steeling herself, Vicki crossed the grass to approach her new source, her heartbeat picking up as she got closer, the thrill of the chase sneaking in her blood just as it always did.

The woman was gazing across the park at one of the groups of boys kicking a soccer ball around, a small smile on her mouth. Vicki felt another pang of wariness; there was something  _familiar_  about the woman's profile, her turned-up nose and high cheekbones, that smile more specifically...

"Ann?" She asked cautiously.

The woman turned her smiling face up to Vicki, and that wary sense of familiarity hit her again.

"Hey there, Vicki," the woman smirked, pushing her sunglasses up on top of her head and making her bangs splay out to the side.

That voice—Vicki knew that voice. She had watched the video of Harley Quinn talking to Commissioner Gordon's kidnapped daughter on a loop, memorizing the way her face moved under the warpaint, trying to find the mousy Dr Quinzel who had once existed beneath it. But this woman was something entirely different from the horrific clown who kidnapped children, let alone Dr Harleen Quinzel.

"Oh, calm down," Harley Quinn rolled her eyes and pushed her sunglasses back down. She patted the bench beside her. "I just want to talk."

Vicki felt split. On the one hand, Harley Quinn as a source was a delectable once in a lifetime opportunity. On the other, she was a kidnapper, a bank robber, a murderer, and who knew what else.

Ambition won out in the end, and Vicki slowly lowered herself down on the bench, aware of Harley Quinn watching her with a dispassionate smile.

"You said you have information about the drug war," Vicki said cautiously. "Are you part of it?"

"Eh," Harley bounced her shoulders in a careless shrug. "I didn't  _really_  start it, but I've decided I'm going to stop it." She sent Vicki a significant look over the tops of her sunglasses. "Which includes putting a face and a name to the other side."

"Why are you trying to stop it? I thought you thrived off chaos?" Vicki asked, ignoring the obvious in favor of the salacious, and Harley Quinn shot her an unimpressed look that left Vicki feeling strangely chastised.

"I'm  _not_ the Joker, _"_ she said, sounding more than a little annoyed, like this was a point she'd had to make many times over.

"Okay," Vicki said carefully. "So who is this face? This name? People know the mob are drug dealers, but who are these Chinese gangs they're fighting?"

"There are three gangs, the Dragons, the Tigers, and the Cobras. Together they're the Lucky Hand Triad," Harley Quinn explained, shifting into business mode, her voice almost academic. "They have contacts in Hong Kong and the Golden Triangle, which means they import the purest heroin into Gotham. They are the reason for Gotham's drug crisis, not the Italian mob that runs a majority of the city."

"So this is you being benevolent?" Vicki asked dubiously. "You expect me to believe this is all about you taking out the real bad guys?"

"I wonder if I should be surprised that the Gazette's most popular columnist actively avoids nuance to keep her readers entertained rather than informed," Harley Quinn replied drolly, shooting Vicki an appraising look that made her bristle. "I was hoping you'd be more interested in a story that actually empowers citizens to make informed choices instead of flashing my picture beneath a sensationalist headline."

"You're more interesting than the drug war," Vicki pointed out, even though she agreed.

"And yet the drug war is what I'm here to talk about as your anonymous source," Harley Quinn snapped, irritation sneaking into her thus far calm voice. "I'm not giving you a fucking exclusive one-on-one Barbra Walters style interview, and that's not what you came here to get."

There was a stretch of silence in which Vicki tried to think of something to say.

"You're writing is good," Harley Quinn said abruptly. "Thoughtful, compelling, and you make solid arguments. But you let yourself get sidetracked by sensationalism, which probably comes from writing for that rag for too long. I bet you want to write for the Globe, don't you," she glanced at Vicki, her mouth curling into a complacent smirk. "A Pulitzer Prize maybe? Who doesn't? What I'm giving you makes for a good headline and is legitimately in need of exposure."

"Look, you're obviously not stupid," Vicki said carefully. "But you're using me to get a narrative out there, just like your old boss Walsh did."

"Walsh's motivation was self-serving and ultimately bad for Gotham," Harley countered breezily. "If you can't see the difference, maybe  _you're_ not as smart as I thought you were."

Vicki sucked in a breath, knowing she was being manipulated and that Harley Quinn wanted this story out there for her own selfish reasons, but she made a compelling case that it was in Gotham's interest too.

And it  _was_  a story the Globe would want to publish.

"You'll be able to verify everything I tell you if you look in the right places," Harley continued airly. "Seed it through your column while you check the facts out. The Globe will publish the full story once you've independently sourced it."

It was hard to find a reason to say no when she framed it like that, and for some reason, Vicki felt like she  _owed_ it to both Harley Quinn and to herself to dig into this story. At last, she relented and agreed, and Harley told her a story that was only crazy and dark enough to be true in Gotham. Vicki checked in with some of her sources later that afternoon, and by her print deadline that evening she had a headline announcing the drug war's true perpetrators over a picture of poverty-stricken addicts living in Eastside drug dens.

And when they went to print the next morning, the Gotham Globe came calling.

* * *

Over the weeks that followed, Gotham began to learn about the mysterious Lucky Hand Triad through Vicki Vale's column. Meanwhile, as the Hand's major storehouses were destroyed one by one, Pam continued to bring new members of the Triad under her very unique influence. More than once, Harley noticed Pam looking drained and uncharacteristically nervous after turning men into drones, similar to her behavior the night they'd met Yuri at the Russian nightclub, but she tried to write it off as emotional exhaustion that just required some rest rather than anything long-term. Besides, Pam made no secret about the fact that she was eager to make as many drones as possible.

There were a few interruptions from the Batman to contend with—he was a pain in the ass, as per usual—but Dinah proved herself to be a remarkably effective deterrent in hand to hand combat.

As Harley expected, the Lucky Hand retreated from harassing the cartels and their trade routes at the southern border to focus their energy on Gotham. The cartels reported to Yuri that the raids had stopped entirely, but they wanted to know if it was permanent, especially after the two years of constant upheaval and turnover among Gotham's crime families. It was decided that the cartels would come to Gotham to meet with the new kingpin, Sofia Falcone. She hadn't technically taken on the official title yet, but it was as clear to the cartels as it was to everyone else that Penguin was out and Sofia was in.

Harley had promised to take out Penguin, but she'd been putting it off, enjoying knowing he was out there, panicking over losing the premiership he'd wanted so badly. She was so well insulated between her thugs and the drones that he would never be able to get to her, two million dollar bounty or no. Maybe she was being cocky, but Harley knew she could look after herself.

Then one day Marty swung by the penthouse, looking grim as he stepped out into the sunshine to find Harley and Roxy in the pool, floating on matching inflatable pink flamingos as they sipped pina coladas made by Mini Ling at the pool bar.

"Hiya, Marty!" Roxy beamed, lifting her heart-shaped sunglasses to squint at him in the early August sun.

"Harley," Marty inclined his chin toward the patio. "Can we talk?"

Harley pushed her sunglasses up on her head and nodded, already knowing this wasn't going to be good as she slipped off her flamingo and swam over to the side of the pool. Mini Ling handed her a towel to dry off on before she and Marty strolled away from prying ears.

"What's up?" She asked, plopping her sunglasses down over her eyes.

"This place is a far cry from Grin's," Marty observed, looking around at the sprawling deck. Pam and Dinah were hiding their fair skin under umbrellas while Roxy splashed at them from her flamingo.

"It's just a place," Harley shrugged, following his gaze toward the pool. "The girls like it."

"Got some bad news," Marty said awkwardly, dawing Harley's attention back to him. "It's Victor Zsasz. Penguin's sent him after you."

"Again?" Harley rolled her eyes. "Victor Zsasz is the last thing I'm worried about."

"After what happened last time..." Marty looked worried. "I don't want pieces of you showing up in me fuckin' post box, Harley."

"That's not going to happen," Harley replied firmly, running her thumbs over her re-grown fingernails. Her  _claws_ , as Victor had called them _._  "But I'd  _love_  to see him try," she added with a scowl.

"Jesus Christ," Marty rolled his eyes heavenward like he was praying for guidance.

"I'll take care of Penguin soon," she conceded. "That won't stop Zsasz, but at least it will clear the way for Sofia."

"There's one more thing," Marty said carefully, almost wincing when Harley shot him a withering look. "The smack... Sofia wants to know if there's any way to uh..."

"To save the heroin so you can sell it?" Harley guessed, feigning cheerfulness before her face darkened. "No way. I am not a drug dealer, Marty. Once the Hand is gone and Sofia's in charge, I'm out."

"And what will you be then?" Marty countered, folding his arms over his chest as he inclined his chin toward the pool. "What about your friends, huh?"

"I don't know yet," Harley shrugged, unconcerned. "Once the dust settles we'll figure it out. We're not exactly  _helpless."_

* * *

Detective Bullock still technically worked for Penguin, but Harley knew his loyalty would always be to her. She brought him in, she paid him, and she scared the shit out of him. That's why she chose him to help her with Penguin.

Nikki drove Harley to the Gray Dove pub in the Cauldron so she could poke around their basement. The Gray Dove was where Lonnie and the Joker questioned her about Crane's fear toxin, and she had always suspected it was where they'd not so discreetly hidden it.

Low and behold, the last two barrels of Crane's toxin were still stored there among numerous empty kegs of Guinness.

Bullock helped Nikki load one barrel of toxin into the back of Harley's car, then followed Harley and Nikki in his piece of shit Buick to the Iceberg Lounge, parking around the corner and waiting for her call to let him know it was time.

Harley dressed in her old Iceberg Lounge uniform of form-fitting black dress and heavy eye makeup to disguise herself. She didn't have her old key, but she was a deft hand at picking locks and knew Penguin's schedule by heart. She waited for him in his office, her spiky heels propped up on his desk, a gas mask hanging around her neck.

Penguin didn't notice her at first as he limped into his office and slammed the door shut. Then he fumbled for the light and turned to find Harley lounging in his chair, a can of Aquanette sitting on the desk beside her as she applied a sloppy coat of red lipstick around her mouth.

"What- I - You!" Penguin sputtered as Harley got to her feet and smoothed out her dress.

"Nice to see you too, Oswald," she greeted him, giving the can of Aquanette a shake.

"What are you doing here!" Penguin demanded, limping toward her, his eyes blazing. "I took you in! I saved your life! I gave you a job! And this is how you repay me!"

"You  _used_  me," Harley pointed out, her eyes narrowing. "You're an incompetent narcissist. The only reason the Joker gave you this job is that he knew you would fuck everything up and that's exactly what you've done."

"The Joker did not  _give_  me a job!" Penguin seethed, edging closer to her. "I gave  _him_  a job."

"See, that's your problem," Harley leaned her hip against his desk. "You don't see the world as it is, Oswald. You thought once you were finished using  _him,_  you'd be able to cast him aside. That would have  _never_  happened."

Penguin opened his mouth to counter this, but Harley cut him off.

"You're right, though, you did help me," she continued. "And that's why I'm not going to kill you."

"If you think you can just—"

Harley pulled the gasmask up to cover her nose and mouth and sprayed Penguin in the face with the Aquanette. He gasped and sputtered as he was hit full in the face with Jonathan Crane's fear toxin, his eyes bulging as he stumbled back, coughing and blinking as the room around him transformed.

"Clowns! The clowns! They're everywhere! They've come for me!"

Harley called Bullock, and he helped her get the ranting, raving, panicking Penguin in handcuffs and out to his car. She waved as the back of Bullock's Buick pulled out of the alley. He would take Penguin straight to Arkham Asylum, making a call to Jim Gordon on the way there to let him know Penguin wasn't fit to be taken to the MCU.

It was all over for Penguin, and soon, Harley would be free too.

* * *

The Lucky Hand's biggest storehouse was an old farmhouse north of the city. This was the  _big_  one, and this time Harley wanted to send a  _strong_  message to the Triad. She was ready to end the drug war once and for all, but she was also growing increasingly concerned with the effects Pam's abilities were having on her mental health. With each new drone Pam made, she seemed to spread herself thinner and thinner, like each mind connected to hers was pulling her in a different direction. And even as it became obvious that she was hurting herself, it never seemed to be enough for her.

But Harley could fix that. Now that Penguin was locked up and Sofia was in charge, all they had to do was shut down the Lucky Hand and they were free to leave Gotham. Then Pam would be free of the drones weighing her down, Harley rationalized. Then they would  _all_  be free.

A few days after burning down the Triad's farmhouse and the millions of dollars worth of heroin stashed there, Harley was laying out by the pool, watching Dinah and Roxy do yoga on the patio while Mini Ling cleaned the pool. It was mid-August now, and a nearly unbearable heatwave had hit the city. Pam was sitting to Harley's right, hiding beneath an umbrella and reading a book about horticulture, Sofia to her left, her tanned, rail-thin body clad in the tiniest bikini Harley had ever seen.

"Are either of you even wearing sunscreen?" Pam asked, frowning at them from her shady patch.

"I'm Italian," Sofia purred, tilting her face up to the sun. "We laugh in the face of skin cancer."

"I'm warding off the UV rays with will power," Harley smirked at Pam, who shook her head with an affectionate little laugh before returning to her book.

"I never thought it could be like this," Sofia said thoughtfully. "My father was always angry, or stressed, or tired or drunk. This though... it's very pleasant."

Harley was inclined to agree with Sofia. Poolside relaxation was a fantastic counterbalance to street fights with the Batman and heroin dealers. But was it sustainable? That thought worried Harley more than any other as she watched Roxy and Dinah move into Warrior Two poses. They'd created this little oasis, and Harley was enjoying it while she could, but she didn't know how long it could last, not the least because this was all  _supposed_  to be temporary. She was supposed to take out the Hand, prop up Sofia and get the hell out with Pam, Dinah, and Roxy in tow.

There were plenty of pools they could layout next to that didn't come with baggage from the mob.

"I had dinner with Janice Porter to discuss Mario's early release last night," Sofia said lightly, pushing her oversized sunglasses up on her head and glancing sideways at Harley, who pretended not to notice. "I think she prefers you to me."

"That's too bad since she works for you now," Harley replied quickly, very disinterested in convincing the DA to play around with Sofia's brother's incarceration. Mario Falcone had been put away by Harvy Dent for money laundering, suspiciously right around the time that Maroni came to power, and now that Sofia was in charge she wanted him freed.

"Perhaps you could have a little... talk with her," Sofia suggested. "Let her know it's in her best interest to be more flexible."

"Janice cares about keeping her kids in boarding school and lining her pockets," Harley said to the sky, feeling a stirring of resentment toward Sofia, though nothing quite so strong as what she'd felt for Penguin or Walsh before him. "There's no need to wine and dine her. Just have a frank conversation."

"That's why I need  _you,_  darling," Sofia purred, and when Harley started to refute this she cut her off. "Don't pretend you don't love the game."

Harley sighed and licked her lips. No, she wouldn't pretend she didn't occasionally enjoy the game. But she still wanted out. She didn't want to be a glorified mob enforcer until the end of her days. It meant doing things she 'should' do instead of all the things she 'wanted' to do. It meant discipline and restraint, and even if there were moments where she triumphed, she was still working for someone else.

Even if she really liked that someone else, like she did Sofia, who was grateful and reasonable and supportive and made Harley great suits, and most of all, she actually  _cared_ about Harley and her friends.

Harley looked at Pam to see what she thought about the game, hoping she would back Harley up and say they had to move on after this. But instead, Pam just smirked and shrugged helplessly.

"Alright, I'll take care of Janice," Harley promised reluctantly.

"There's one other thing," Sofia added, making Harley roll her eyes. She would never get over how there was always 'one more thing' with these people. She  _was_  'these people' now, and she never pushed her luck so direly. Maybe. "About the Lucky Hand..."

"The Lucky Hand, who will be destroyed outright within the next two weeks," Harley filled in.

"Darling," Sofia said patiently. "I'm a businesswoman first and foremost. When there is a good product you don't destroy it. You  _acquire_  it."

Harley pulled her sunglasses off and sat up, her irritation boiling over as she turned to give Sofia a piece of her mind. That she was not a drug dealer, that she was not interested in helping the mob expand its business or dealing with the politics that went into it.

"They'll come to the table soon, they have no other choice," Sofia said, ignoring Harley's impatient huff. "I want you to make a deal with them."

"I am not your  _diplomat,"_  Harley bit back, feeling like she was being backed into a corner with friendship rather than brut force, and she couldn't decide which was worse.

"You said you would install me before you left," Sofia sat up too, pushing her sunglasses up on her head and fixing Harley with a grim look. "This mess is nowhere near being cleaned up yet."

"Sofia's right," Pam spoke up, making Harley's eyes widen as she spun around to look at her friend. "We can't just leave Sofia to deal with this on her own," Pam continued. "A deal with the Lucky Hand is the best way to keep them under her thumb."

Harley remained quiet, trying to decide if arguing with Pam about this was worth it. She could bring Dinah into the discussion. Dinah had a stronger moral compass and less of a taste for power than Pam. She would be the voice of reason that sticking around in Gotham wasn't a good idea.

"You two are the only ones who can make this deal for me," Sofia continued, laying back and sliding her sunglasses down over her eyes. "The Hand has access to the Golden Triangle and Hong Kong. If we bring them into the fold, offer them reparations, we can do much more together."

"Fine," Harley snapped, looking to Pam again for her take.

"Worst case scenario, they don't take the deal and I turn them all into drones," Pam grinned lazily, only solidifying Harley's suspicion that her taste for power was growing beyond her limits. "I might just do that anyway," Pam added slyly, making Sofia chuckle while Harley chewed her bottom lip uneasily.

When Harley broke Pam out of Arkham, her priority had been saving the planet. Now all Pam wanted was more power, like an addict never satisfied with what she had, regardless of the toll it took on her. Harley nearly felt guilty for dragging her into all of this.

_Nearly._

The Joker would never have felt guilty about making Harley shed her moral skin, but this wasn't about flexible morality anymore. The Joker had always found power-hungry people distasteful.  _Obvious._  All he'd ever done was shown Harley the truth of things, many of which she already knew. But Harley had pointed Pam straight to those power-hungry people, making her one of them, and now when Harley was growing tired of it, Pam didn't want to let it go.

It was only a matter of time before this hunger for power turned into something darker, and who the fuck knew what that would do to Pam.

Harley sighed through her nose, frustrated that she couldn't get what she wanted, or at least that she couldn't escape what she  _didn't_  want.

What she ultimately wanted, well, that was still up for discussion.

* * *

Harley took care of Janice Porter, just as she'd promised she would. A mild threat and a bag of money was all it took to get her to look into Mario Falcone's case, but the members of Gotham City Council were another story. Two out of the seven were campaigning to bring the Dent Act back up for discussion. Both of them had been friends of Dent's, which made persuading them a more complicated task.

Pam wanted to turn these City Council members into drones as the easiest and more foolproof way to keep them in line, but Harley tried to convince her it wasn't necessary, wanting to avoid the hours of anxious hand-wringing and nervous pacing that now followed every time Pam made a new drone. Harley remembered she once described her connection to the drones as feeling like they were an extension of herself, like the arms of an octopus, and Harley was convinced the anxiety she was seeing was a product of Pam being stretched too thin by all those minds tied to hers.

After a drawn-out argument that only made Harley more uneasy, Pam moodily gave the City Councilmen a demonstration of what she was capable of, her frustration over having to restrain herself making her snappy and sullen.

The demonstration served their purposes well enough, though, and with a little money sprinkled in, and the City Council was once again under Jancie Porter's corrupt control.

The Lucky Hand came to the table when asked, proving to Harley that they realized just how futile this fight was. Terms were laid out for how the Triad would be incorporated into the latest rendition of Gotham's mob under Sofia Falcone. As with any conquering victor, the terms were more preferrable to Sofia than the Hand, requiring them to pay more, have less control and most of all, pledge their loyalty to her.

There was also the case of Mini Ling, who would be transferred back into the Hand's care after six months of friendly, productive business.

Their first meeting to discuss the deal took place in an alleyway in the Bowery. Neutral territory where they could hopefully have a productive conversation. Nikki drove Harley and Pam in the Range Rover while a second car full of Odessa thugs followed behind them.

There was already an SUV waiting for them in the alley when Nikki pulled up, parking almost nose to nose with it. The doors of both cars opened at the same time, Harley and her crew piling out and lining up as Boss Tzu's son and his men did the same. Harley forced herself to be present, telling herself the sooner this was over, the sooner she could return to the penthouse and drink a bottle of wine.

"Harley Quinn," Tzu's son said, his English unaccented. American schools, American upbringing, but still back in the family business, Harley noted.

"Hi," she replied with a snide smirk. Her face was painted, but she felt like it was always painted right now. "You've seen our offer. Do you have any reasonable amendments?"

Tzu's son smirked right back at Harley, and there was a gleam in his eye that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

Something was happening, she realized. Something had been overlooked.

A car door opened and shut as someone else joined Tzu's group of enforcers and pushed their way to the front.

"Ya know  _reasonable_  is such a uh...  _subjective_  term," the person said, their voice nasal and smug and so familiar that Harley's skin prickled as her brain struggled to comprehend what she was hearing.

Then he appeared in front of her, his face white and eyes black, his mouth red and cruel.

It was the Joker.

* * *

**A/N:** **And now back to our regularly scheduled programming!**

**Hope you guys enjoyed that, I know it was long, and I could have easily written ten more chapters about Pam & Harley bonding and causing trouble. I really *really* wish I got to develop Pam more but that's the way the editorial cookie crumbled.**

**But, the Joker's back now, and we will be seeing QUITE a lot of him and hearing from him too.**

**FYI, I see Dinah as a** **Kiernan Shipka type.**

**Next: Harley deals with learning the Joker is still alive while she copes with the responsibility she's taken on as Sofia Falcone's right-hand woman.**

**Anyone see the new Joker movie? YIKES.**

**Please review! :)**


	24. Chapter 24

The Harlequin

24.

* * *

A tremor ran up Harley's back and across her scalp as she stared at the Joker, standing across from her in the purple suit and warpaint she knew so well. Her brain refused to accept what her eyes were seeing, that he was standing there, alive and breathing, not rotting in the dirt.

Pam's hand closed around Harley's, squeezing it tight to show her support. Don't waver, that hand said, don't give in.

But Harley had lost the ability to speak, her tongue heavy in her mouth and her body frozen solid as she stared at the Joker, her eyes widening when he waggled his eyebrows and offered her a shitty little smirk.

Pam squeezed her hand again, harder this time, and Harley forced herself to look away, finding Tzu's pleased face in the darkness.

"You must be very desperate," she observed, her eyes narrowing. "If you're turning to him."

Then Harley spun away before Tzu's son could respond, half dragging Pam to the car and jumping in the back without pause. She slid across the seat as Pam climbed in beside her and Nikki got behind the wheel, nearly tripping him over himself in his rush to get them the hell out of there. As they peeled out of the alley, the tires squealing, Harley doubled over to press her face to her knees.

"Shit," Pam hissed as she moved across the seat to sit beside Harley, placing a comforting hand on her back. "It'll be okay," she said, sounding like she was trying to reassure herself instead of Harley. "It'll be okay. It'll be okay... I'm sure it'll be okay," she chanted, her voice pitching higher.

Harley sat up, her heart hammering in her neck.

He was alive.

_He was alive._

How could he be alive?

"Shit, _"_  Pam huffed, growing more distraught. "Oh, shit...  _shit._ "

Harley turned to look at Pam, the distress obvious in her face as she continued to rub Harley's back aggressively. She was scared.

Of course she was scared. The Joker was alive.

* * *

When they got back to the penthouse, Pam poured Harley a glass of gin that she didn't touch as she sat silently with her elbows propped up on the bar in the kitchen. She teepeed her hands in front of her mouth and stared straight ahead, her fingers occasionally migrating over her face, smearing away her warpaint.

Pam sat beside her, calmer now that there was physical distance between them and the Joker, but her obvious concern was intensifying the longer Harley went without speaking.

Harley could tell Pam had questions—probably questions Harley couldn't answer like how he was alive, and where he had been, and why he was only coming back now. As the hours dragged on, Pam reluctantly gave Harley some space and went to bed, and Harley took her untouched gin out to the patio to stare off into the darkness covering Gotham's Eastside, hoping to find an answer there.

Hollow was probably the best way to describe how she felt. Like her organs had been carved out and all she had left was a vast, empty void.

Almost nine months of believing the Joker was dead and that she had killed him, and he turned up so casually as if no time had passed at all, like the only thing that had changed were their allegiances. Harley supposed she was probably in shock, suddenly being confronted with someone she'd grieved for, whose death she'd nearly come to terms with. Over nine  _fucking_  months and then he was just  _there_ , looking exactly like he'd always looked, and none of her spies or sources had been able to tell her he was still walking the earth leaving chaos in his wake.

Harley should have known when she'd gone back to Joe's apartment to find it cleaned up. She should have _realized_  when she learned the police found the apartment empty only  _days_  after she left him there for dead. She should have had the foresight to know that something wasn't right.

Eventually, the sun started to rise, pinks and oranges lighting up the ugliest, saddest part of the city, and though Harley knew she needed to come up with a plan, all she couldn't get past trying to understand how  _she_  fit into the world now that the Joker was back in it.

Pam came out to check on her a few hours after the sun came up, her dark red hair tied up in a messy knot suggesting she'd managed to get some sleep. Harley should have been exhausted, but the numbness that had settled inside her seemed to block out her biological need for sleep. She gratefully accepted the face wipe Pam offered her to remove what remained of her warpaint while Pam settled onto the sun lounge beside her.

"You haven't slept yet?" Pam asked, and Harley shook her head. "Have you thought about what we're going to do?" Pam continued, sounding sterner. As if Harley needed to snap out it and treat the situation like one more problem they would strategize their way through. Like it could be solved with a little creativity and some elbow grease.

"I have no idea," Harley shot Pam a cursory look and could tell she was worried. Not just worried for Harley, but for all of them.

"We can't do nothing," Pam sighed, a little exasperated. "You took him down once, and you can do it again."

"I didn't kill him," Harley pointed out uneasily.

"You told me you didn't check the body for a pulse," Pam pushed back, aiming for supportive but sounding impatient instead. "If you'd known he was still alive, you would have put a bullet in his head. Next time you won't make the same mistake."

Slowly, Harley turned to face Pam, her eyes widening at what she was hearing. When had Pam become so ruthless? And how had Harley not noticed the change was  _so_  dramatic until that moment when she was talking about putting a bullet in the Joker's head? Pam wanted Harley to man up and take care of the Joker for good, but Harley wasn't sure she was capable of that. Not just because of her complicated feelings on the matter, but because the Joker wasn't an easy man to kill.

"I know you can do it," Pam said, covering Harley's hand supportively where it rested on the arm of the sun lounge. "He'll come after all of us if you don't."

"Revenge isn't really his style," Harley said drily. "He's more of the slow, long-term torture type."

Pam sent her a pointed look. Long term torture was not better than a quick execution.

"Yeah," Harley nodded weakly, trying to pull herself together. Pam was right. Harley knew she was right. Harley knew they needed to do something about the Joker's return to Gotham. He was working with her enemy, and that made him her enemy too.

She just didn't feel very enthusiastic about it.

"Alright," she sighed, sliding her feet into her heels before standing. She hardened her expression and looked down at Pam. "I have some errands to run. Tell Dinah and Roxy what's going on but, you know, don't scare them."

"You're not going to get some sleep first? Or maybe a shower?" Pam asked, looking concerned again, but also a little judgemental too. "You've been wearing that suit for three days."

Harley was long past caring about something as trivial as  _comfort_ , especially after the night before.

"No," she said, her face darkening. "I need to take care of this before he does something we don't see coming."

Pam's eyes widened, and she nodded slowly, like Harley vocalizing how dangerous the Joker was made her realize she'd been underestimating him even in her zealous encouragement to send Harley out to murder him as soon as possible. Pam had no idea what they were up against, and before Harley left, she told her as much, leaving Pam wringing her hands as she walked away.

* * *

One of the doors at the front entrance of Grin and Bare It had been propped open with a brick, a weak attempt to beat the heatwave that had settled over Gotham.

The Joker poked his head in, tonguing the scar tissue inside his cheek as he looked around the empty club. His eyes narrowed as they settled on Marty where he stood at the bar, opposite his old spot behind it, squinting at a laptop screen as he complained to someone on a cell phone. Probably screwing them out of a measly five percent, the Joker thought with a smirk, giving the door a few jaunty knocks to get Marty's attention.

Marty's head snapped up, his eyes flying open wide when he saw the Joker standing there.

"Holy fuckin' shit," Marty swore reverently, dropping the cell phone so it went skittering across the floor. "Holy  _fuckin'_  shit!" His face split into a delirious grin.

"Hiya, Marty," the Joker drawled, flashing a wry smirk as he slipped into the club, pulling the door shut behind him.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ,—!" Marty said the Joker's name then, his  _real_  name, not the nickname fostered upon him or the letter that stood for it.

Marty was the only person left alive who knew  _that_  little secret.

Not that it was ever  _meant_  to be a secret, but people in the Joker's orbit never had the longest life expectancies...

He shrugged mildly, and Marty threw back his head and laughed at the ceiling before he stomped forward, beaming as he embraced the Joker.

"You beautiful bastard!" Marty laughed, slapping him on the back. "Christ alive, I can't fuckin' believe this! Back from the dead! Jesus Christ, I need a drink."

The Joker chuckled and laid a hand on Marty's shoulder, gently pushing him away. "Ya missed me that much, huh?"

"Bloody  _hell,_  it's been a fuckin' nightmare," Marty groaned, heading for his old spot behind the bar to pour them shots of whiskey while the Joker hauled himself up on a barstool. "What the fuck happened?" Marty babbled, throwing back a shot of and pouring himself another.

"You didn't  _hear?"_  The Joker lifted an appraising eyebrow, watching Marty grow visibly flustered.

"Yeah, I heard," Marty said, drumming his fingers against the bottle of whiskey and looking conflicted. "Yeah..."

" _Yeah_ ," the Joker agreed, shooting Marty a pointed look. "I need to uh... have a little  _talk_  with her."

"Right, right, of course," Marty nodded slowly. He looked  _concerned_. "Does she know yet?"

"Saw her last night," the Joker shrugged, trying to gauge how much of a hold Harley had over Marty. She had an annoying habit of  _scrambling_  his boys' priorities.

"How'd she take it?" Marty asked cautiously. Ah, worried about her  _feelings_.

"Not as well as you," the Joker replied drily, remembering Harley's face when he'd crossed paths with her the night before.

Her warpaint had been too fresh, making her hard to read in the dark alley. She'd stolen that little trick from him and put it to good use, sneaky little schemer that she was.

But it was obvious she'd been shocked to see him alive. Her whole body had visibly tensed up, an admirable feat considering the giant stick she already had up her ass.

"She took it pretty hard after that all went down," Marty said, aiming for casual even though he looked kind of...  _twitchy_ suddenly. "She was in a real bad place for a while there."

The Joker sighed dramatically, disinterested in how  _hard_  it had been for her or her  _feelings_  on the matter of nearly killing him. He wasn't pissed off about it, didn't feel any  _malice_  toward her over it, but there were some glaringly obvious facts that couldn't be ignored. She'd fucked him over—he seemed to remember  _expecting_  that to happen at some point—and she'd shot him—he  _hadn't_  seen that coming—and she'd made the vital mistake of not  _actually_ killing him. Now that he was back in Gotham, she had to be dealt with accordingly.

The Joker just wasn't sure what  _dealing_  with her would look like yet. There were so many  _options._

But Harley wasn't currently the Joker's top priority.

_"So,"_  he purred, resting an elbow on the bar and leaning in. "I hear she's got an interesting  _friend_  these days."

"Pam," Marty pursed his lips, looking conflicted again. "Yeah, she's interesting alright."

"The Lucky Hand boys call her Poison Ivy," the Joker rolled his eyes. "They say once she gets in your head, that's it. You can  _never_  kill her, and before ya know it, she's taken over your buddies too... Like a, uh,  _infestation._ "

"You're workin' with the Lucky Hand?" Marty frowned.

"Eh," the Joker shrugged, flapping his hand evasively. Some would say working  _with_ , others working  _for;_ the Joker saw it as taking advantage of the high-quality  _opportunities_  the Lucky Hand kept presenting him with. "I'm gonna see it play out," he shrugged again.

"Right," Marty said, looking uncertain. "So what are you gonna do about Harley, boss?"

_What are you gonna do about Harley, boss?_

The Joker felt a familiar twist of unease over this simple question, something forgotten floating to the surface.

He wasn't one to  _reflect_  on the past, not when that past was irrelevant to the situation at hand. The last few months had been near-constant chaos and violence, keeping him plenty busy and satisfied with no reason to reminisce about what had gone down in Gotham with Harley. Now he was back, specifically to deal with Harley's friend Poison Ivy— _Pam_ —who sounded like a  _total_  gas, especially compared to boring, uptight,  _scheming_  Harley.

Harley, he remembered, had a terrible habit of getting in the way, inserting herself where she didn't belong.  _Annoying._

Harley, he remembered, was cold and calculating, always plotting something.  _Sneaky._

Harley, he remembered, liked to lie to herself about what she wanted, torturing herself instead of giving in.  _Boring._

Oh, she was dangerous, and now she was powerful too with the full weight of the mob behind her. That didn't make her any more interesting to the Joker; the mob was as predictable and as boring as you could get. The only thing keeping it interesting—the only thing that dragged him back to Gotham—was her friend Poison Ivy.  _Pam_. A compelling thorn in the Lucky Hand's side.

_What are you gonna do about Harley, boss?_

It was a valid question though, one he would be able to answer after speaking to her.

The Joker tongued his bottom lip thoughtfully, eyeballing the shot glass of whiskey pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He tried to picture Harley's face; her real face, not the Harlequin one she showed everyone else. He could picture pale blue eyes, high cheekbones, a button nose, soft blonde hair, the appealing way her waist curved in above her hip... But it was like a jigsaw puzzle, separate pieces refusing to connect as a whole.  _Weird_.

He knocked back the whiskey and carefully set the glass on the bar top, then turned his eyes on Marty, who had composed his face into something more resolute. Something  _loyal._  He was making a choice. The Joker over Harley.  _Good._

"So,  _Marty_ ," the Joker smirked, catching Marty's eye. "Why don't you tell me everything you know about, uh...  _Pam..._ "

* * *

Harley spent the day rallying the troops like any good general when things were about to go to hell.

She started with the DA, having Nikki drive her to Janice Porter's gym on the Upper Westside to catch her on her way out of a SoulCycle class. Harley leaned against the hood of Janice's car, a flashy new BMW paid for by Sofia Falcone, and crossed one ankle over the other as the DA warily approached her.

"What are you doing here?" Janice looked nervous, having never encountered Harley outside her office in daylight before.

Harley pushed her sunglasses up on her head and swayed forward.

"The Joker is back," she informed her emotionlessly. "And we have a few things we need to discuss."

Janice's eyes widened, just as horrified as every other person Harley had encountered when they heard the Joker's name.

After an exhaustive talk with the DA, covering topics ranging from the Joker, Mario Falcone, Mayor Garcia, and the Dent Act, Harley started working her way through a list of the City Councilmen and upper management cops Sofia needed on her side. As Nikki drove her from one spot to the next, scratching names off the list, Harley listened to AM radio hosts talk about Vicki Vale's latest reporting on the Lucky Hand's war with the mob, and decided Vicki required a face to face meeting as well.

Once the politicians were dealt with, Harley met Vicki at the University Park, promising her another juicy scoop. All Vicki knew was that the Joker had been inactive for months, not that he had been presumed dead. Harley also got the impression Vicki thought they'd 'broken up' or something similarly silly considering her 'Mad Love' take on their relationship.

The sun was getting low in the sky when Harley flopped down beside Vicki on a park bench, informing her without delay that the Joker was back in Gotham. It earned yet another horrified, wide-eyed look that seemed to be the standard reaction to learning he was in town. Harley didn't elaborate on any of the more  _personal_ details of his return, only that the Joker was working for the Lucky Hand and would probably make a big move soon.

Thanks to Vicki, the Gotham Globe would inform the fearful populace that the Joker was back while also letting the Batman and Gordon know they had one more thing to worry about, and most importantly, it would strip the Joker of any cover or anonymity he might have thought he had.

After she left Vicki, Harley headed to Midtown to meet Sofia at her penthouse. Her eyes were starting to droop on the drive over, and she could feel herself getting antsy, annoyed, and frustrated with what felt like a wasted day. Meetings, meetings, meetings. That was  _all_  she did anymore.

Sofia's children were home from school, both of them in the kitchen with their nanny while Sofia and Harley decamped to Sofia's office to discuss the situation at hand.

"Darling, you look exhausted," Sofia purred, her red lips twisting sympathetically as they sat in the uncomfortable but stylish chairs in front of her desk.

"Thanks," Harley said, meaning to be sarcastic but just sounding tired instead.

"Do you think the Hand hired him to kill you?" Sofia asked point-blank, one eyebrow lifting.

"Even if they did, that won't be why he's agreed to... partner up with them," Harley shrugged. "He'll have his own agenda. I just don't know what it is yet."

"Isn't it normally chaos, destruction, blah, blah, blah," Sofia rolled her eyes. "He's so tedious."

Harley felt a tired smirk tug at her lips, thinking that  _tedious_  was the wrong word for the Joker, but also one of the biggest insults Sofia could lob at him.

"You should speak to him," Sofia said suddenly, making Harley's eyes snap up to hers.

"What do you mean?" She asked warily, feeling herself recoil from the idea of being in his presence again. Not if it would make her feel so...  _empty._

"I mean, hold a Parler to clear the air," Sofia said, searching Harley's face. "You can get him to talk, get him to tell you what he wants. You can make  _anyone_  talk, darling, even if they don't realize they're doing it."

Harley shifted uneasily in her seat. "Maybe," she agreed reluctantly. If she knew what he wanted, that might take some of the pressure off. That might mean she would feel better about killing him per Pam's advice instead of giving him a wide berth as she was currently inclined to do.

"Pam wants me to put a bullet in his head," Harley said, making a face.

"My God, when did Pam become such a bitch?" Sofia wondered, looking amused.

"I was thinking the same thing," Harley said flatly, pulling herself out of the chair. She didn't have the energy to worry about both Pam  _and_  the Joker. Then she realized something and shot Sofia a wary look. "You  _don't_  think I should put a bullet in his head?"

Sofia pursed her lips as she rose to her feet, something mischevious glimmering in her hooded eyes as she patted Harley on the shoulder.

"We'll see," she said, fingering a stray thread on the sleeve of Harley's blazer. "Life does seem to be more interesting with him in it."

Harley laughed tiredly, wholeheartedly in agreement.

* * *

Harley's scalp started to prickle with exhaustion as she neared forty-eight hours without sleep, but she couldn't face going back to Pam and the penthouse. To kill some time, she and Nikki got dinner at a sushi restaurant in Midtown. They looked grossly out of place compared to the other patrons, with Nikki in his maroon leather jacket and dirty sneakers, and Harley in her rumpled suit and dark sunglasses. It was reckless, but she didn't care.

"Nikki, what do you think about me?" Harley asked, popping some yellowfin in her mouth.

"I think you the boss, boss," Nikki answered dutifully. "You know what's up."

"Come on, Nikki," Harley smirked, finding the drone behavior endearing on him. "Tell me what you  _really_  think."

"Okay, I think you scary," he pivoted obediently. "And kind of a  _bitch."_

Harley snorted, amused by this assessment of her character.

"And very sexy," Nikki added with a shrug, making Harley laugh outright.

She hadn't felt _sexy_  in quite some time. Scary bitch was a far more accurate way to describe her since she'd gone to work for Penguin. In her mind, she was no different now than when she'd worked at Arkham, except now she was unchained from societal norms, and that made her 'scary.' But Harley might say she had a greater capacity for _sexy_  as Dr Quinzel. Harley Quinn was ice cold. At least Harleen had been warm-blooded.

Harley still wasn't ready to go back to the penthouse or have the conversations she would need to have once she got there, so she decided to procrastinate and had Nikki drive a few blocks to one of the more upscale furniture boutiques in Midtown. Nikki waited in the car while Harley examined the show furniture, keeping her sunglasses on and ignoring the strange looks she received from the sales assistants as she tested out mattresses and checked the price tags on beds. She grabbed two sets of high thread count sheets along with some pillows and scented candles, and offered the salesgirl a smirk as she dropped her goods on the counter.

"I'll take one of those and one of those too," Harley said, pointing at a mattress, and then at a lamp on the other side of the store as she flashed her Kyiv Financial credit card.

Nikki and one of the sales associates tied the mattress to the roof of the Range Rover and folded the rest of her purchases into the back, then Harley instructed Nikki to drive her east to the Burnley Arms neighborhood on the Eastside. They pulled up in front of the old public housing building Harley and the Joker had hidden in the night after they kidnapped Barbie Gordon, a place she'd considered taking Pam but ultimately decided to keep for herself in case she needed it as she did now.

Harley helped Nikki carry the mattress through the maze of brick walls to the ground floor apartment where she moved a loose brick beside the front door to reveal a key. As Nikki returned to fetch the rest of the items from the car, Harley wandered into the small kitchen, flipping light switches and testing the water. It smelled less like dead bodies covered in bleach than she remembered.

Nikki wrestled the old sofa bed out of the bedroom while Harley watched impassively from the doorway, her mind drifting to a few stolen moments on that sofa bed before Nikki tossed it out on the sidewalk. The sun was starting to set by the time Harley finished laying fresh sheets on the new mattress, casting long shadows along the cracked plaster walls as she set the lamp up in the corner. When it was all done, she told Nikki to get some sleep in the car and shed her clothes before climbing into her new bed, sighing in relief when her head connected with the pillow.

* * *

"Where the hell have you been?" Pam demanded when Harley arrived back at the penthouse late the next afternoon, her suit jacket slung over her shoulder and sunglasses covering her rolling eyes.

"Where do you think?" Harley replied shortly, allowing Pam to make her own assumptions. She breezed through the kitchen where Roxy and Mini Ling were making empanadas for lunch, and into the open plan living room with Pam on her heels.

"And?" Pam pushed impatiently, as Harley kicked off her heels and flopped down on the excessively squishy couch, pushing her sunglasses up on her head.

"And I need to talk to him," Harley sighed, waiting for Pam to get her horrified protests out before she continued. "I need to find out what he wants. He's too unpredictable to take on blindly."

Pam huffed unhappily, wringing her hands and stomping back and forth along the length of the couch before finally falling down beside Harley.

"Also," Harley continued, tiredly. "We need to vet the drones. Find out if any of them have seen him before the other night."

"Good idea," Pam nodded, wringing her hands.

"Tell them to go to the office," Harley continued, standing even though her body wanted to remain boneless on the couch. She'd slept for an amazing eighteen hours at her safe house in Burnely, and dragging herself out of bed knowing what she needed to do had been less than fun.

"Do you need to get some sleep?" Pam frowned, watching Harley pad toward her bedroom.

"No," Harley said shortly, without turning around.

She grabbed a quick shower, using a bar of soap to wash her hair instead of the fancy fruity shampoo the penthouse came with. The place was starting to feel grotesque with its luxuries. Harley liked soft beds, and she was a big fan of fresh sheets, but there was something ludicrous about permanently living in a palatial penthouse with a job like hers.

She wasn't sure when she had started thinking of it as a full-time  _job._

Wasn't this supposed to be about having fun?

When she got out of the shower there was a garment bag waiting on her bed with a note in Sofia's handwriting attached— _Stop sleeping in my ready-to-wear_ —and inside was a new suit and shirt, almost identical to the one she'd just shed and kicked aside. Harley shrugged it on, forgoing a bra, and slid her feet back into her heels, her wet hair dripping down the back of her neck and making her shirt stick to her skin.

"Let's go," she announced to Pam and Dinah when she returned to the living room. "Let's get this sonofabitch," she added, though even to her ears it sounded forced.

* * *

Harley and Pam spent the entire night interrogating drones at their Downtown office space. Sometime after Midnight, Dinah curled up on the threadbare sofa in the corner to get some sleep, and Harley could tell Pam was starting to run out of steam too. She reminded her this wasn't something they could put off, and Pam nodded in agreement, rubbing the exhaustion from her eyes with the heels of her hands as they started on a new drone.

None of the drones had seen the Joker up until the last few days. A few had seen him go into meetings with the Hand bosses and their sons, but none had been in the room for those meetings, which took place at random one-off locations around the city. They didn't know what was being planned; all they knew was that the bosses were being even more secretive than usual.

Harley wasn't particularly concerned with what the bosses were planning. It was the Joker's agenda that worried her. The drug war had spread death and chaos through Gotham, and the longer Harley thought about it, the more she began to suspect that even if the drones had never seen him before, the Joker had been pulling strings from behind the scenes for quite some time. That was  _exactly_  the kind of thing he would do.

She voiced this thought to Pam, who wrinkled her nose and disagreed. She was of the opinion that he'd been called in to take Harley out, which was reasonable and probably at least partially correct but not his real motivation in Harley's estimation, though she didn't bother to argue with Pam over it.

Pam curled up on the couch beside Dinah when she started falling asleep sitting up, leaving Harley to interrogate the drones filing in and out every twenty to thirty minutes. They had spoken to at least sixty men, and those were just the ones working for the Lucky Hand.

Seeing them all in one place made it impossible to ignore how wide-ranging Pam's powers had grown in the span of just a few months, and it forced Harley to reflect on the changes she'd seen in Pam, changes that had become especially prominent with the Joker's return. When Harley first met her, Pam had been caustic and stubborn—qualities Harley had come to find charming—but she'd also been self-possessed and brilliant. That Pam never doubted herself, and she'd  _never_  been this anxious or naggy or  _fearful_.

Finally, around dawn, while Pam and Dinah were waking up and Harley was gulping down a fudge-like mug of instant coffee, they had a breakthrough.

But not the good kind.

"Have you seen him without the paint?" Harley asked the drone sitting across from her, yawning.

"No, he always look like clown," the man replied dutifully. "Always purple."

"Always purple," Harley sighed, rolling her eyes to Dinah who shrugged helplessly. "Do you know what he's planning?"

"No one know what bosses and Joker are planning," he said quickly. "But Joker says Dr Quinzel always planning something."

Harley was in the process of pressing her thumbs to her eyes when he said this. Her hands fell away and her head snapped up.

"What did you say?" She demanded.

"Joker say, Dr Quinzel always planning something," the drone replied obediently. "He say, she won't be easy to kill because she ruthless killer."

Harley's pulse leaped in her throat, and she inhaled sharply, trying to push aside the nervous, rattled feeling sweeping through her.

"He  _spoke_  to you?" Harley narrowed her eyes.

"Yes, boss," the drone nodded sharply. "He tell me tell you he wanna talk."

"How the hell did he know to tell _you_ he wants to talk?" Harley snapped, her voice rising a few octaves.

The drone pulled his sleeve up then, revealing a blood-stained bandage covering the inside of his forearm. Harley looked between the bandage and the drone's placid face, then ripped the bandage off, revealing a long, perfectly rectangular patch of raw flesh where the first few layers of skin had been removed.

"Skin grafter," she hissed, remembering an almost identically-shaped scar on the Joker's forearm. Good for getting  _women_  to talk he'd said when she first saw it, and now he was using it on their drones to send her a message. That he might be able to get  _them_  to talk.

Harley jumped to her feet, pulling her gun from the holster at her side and pressing the barrel to the drone's forehead.

"Did you tell him where to find us?" She demanded.

"No, boss! I just say I love Dr Isley! I love her!"

"We have to get out of here," Dinah announced grimly, as Pam started wringing her hands and Harley tucked her gun back in its holster.

She had forgotten just how slippery the Joker was, and it made her start to doubt that she could hold her own against him.

"How is he doing this!" Pam wailed, looking horrified. Her hand wringing intensified until she was desperately grappling with her arms and elbows, rocking unsteadily from one foot to the other. "How is he controlling them and I'm not even feeling it!"

"He's not controlling them," Harley said, shooting Dinah a pointed look and inclining her head toward Pam. "He's just sneaky and really...  _proficient_  at torturing people."

Dinah took hold of Pam's hands and pried them away from her arms, reassuring her that everything would be okay while Harley grabbed the drone by the elbow and marched him out of the office. She tossed him out in the hall and watched him scramble away as she listened to Dinah murmur calming things to Pam. Harley looked between them briefly, feeling her heart sink as she watched Pam meltdown. The phrase  _nervous wreck_  came to mind.

"Let's go," she insisted, waving them both out of the office and out to the car where Sasha was waiting. Pam and Dinah piled in while Harley circled to the trunk to fetch a red plastic jug of gasoline, then to the driver's side to get matches off Sasha. With Pam shouting after her, demanding to know what was going on, Harley jogged back into the office and kicked open a crate of dynamite Sergey the Russian left with them. She tossed gasoline over the crate, then over walls and the floor and out in the hallway, until she was standing at the exit. She dumped what remained of the jug onto the floor and lit a match, tossing it into the gasoline before she turned and fled.

"What the fuck are you doing!" Pam yelped, her face turning scarlet as Harley jumped into the back of the car. The fire in the office block started to spread, licking the sides of the building as Sasha laid his foot down on the gas and took off up the street. "Harley, what did you do!"

Harley ignored Pam in favor of the phone ringing in her pocket. She huffed in frustration seeing it was Yuri and answered the call just as the dynamite detonated in a nearly deafening explosion behind them. It threw the back wheels of the Range Rover up in the air, making Pam spit and scream as the office building started to crumble behind them.

"What the fuck's goin' on, eh?" Yuri drawled impatiently, his voice only just breaking through Harley's ringing ears and Pam's screaming.

"Taking care of something," Harley snapped, pressing one finger to her ear and squinting. "What the fuck's happened now?"

Yuri chuckled happily on the other end of the line, making Harley grit her teeth.

"Is good news, Harley. Cartels is comin' in two weeks to eh...  _cement_  our friendship," he said cheerfully. "Sofia says we talk today. Good for you?"

Harley let her head fall back so she was staring at the ceiling, trying to control the frustration swirling inside her as she continued to ignore Pam's demands for information. It took every ounce of willpower Harley possessed not to grab her by the neck and slam her into the window to shut her up. Not  _hurt_  her per se, just to make a point that this was  _not_  helpful.

"Pam!  _Shut the fuck up!"_  Harley roared, keeping her hands to herself while effectively stunning Pam into silence.

Harley wanted to get out and run far, far away. Steal a car and drive until she was out of gas, so long as she was far away from these people demanding things from her and sucking her into their problems, not letting her live her life. Yuri, Sofia, and Pam, all so needy and entitled to ask her for whatever they wanted. Dinah with her judgy looks. Marty, who har no doubt already turned on her and told his best pal the Joker everything he knew about Pam's abilities which, thank fuck, wasn't very much.

"I'm sorry," Harley said weakly, not really meaning it as she glanced at Pam, who was looking at her with big, anxious green eyes while Dinah's lips pursed in an unimpressed line. "Yuri is stressing me out," Harley added, hoping maybe some  _girlfriends-who-share-their-feelings_  would help her. "I'm sorry," she said again, this time to Dinah.

Dinah obviously didn't think she meant it, shooting Harley another one of her judgy little looks.

* * *

Sofia's lieutenants met at one of the Russian storehouses in the Bowery that afternoon. Harley left Pam and Dinah at home. They were tired after being at the office all night, and neither of them liked talk of cocaine dealers and drug cartels so there was no point involving them. Harley found it gross too, but she didn't have a choice in the matter. It had been her brilliant idea to invite the cartels up to Gotham, and she was too damned efficient not to see it through.

After going another day and a half without sleep, Harley was running on fumes, but there was too much happening for something as trivial as a REM cycle to get in the way. After a micro nap in the car on the way to the Bowery and a handful of caffeine pills, Harley anticipated she would at least be able to keep going for another few hours when she was due to meet with Detective Bullock at the Stacked Deck. But if she needed to keep going for longer, she would. She had to see it through.

Yuri was very pleased with himself, clearly believing the war was won even when Harley informed him that the Joker was back and working for the Lucky Hand. As expected, Marty didn't look the least bit surprised, confirming what Harley already knew about his loyalties. Boris Kosov voiced a healthy amount of skepticism on behalf of the Odessa gangs, but Yuri reassured him that it was nothing to worry about.

"Why we care about Joker when we have Pam?" Yuri scoffed. "He should be scared shitless of Harley Quinn and her friends, eh!"

Harley didn't bother to contest Yuri's cockiness. She was already worrying that the Joker would reveal an ace in the hole, one which would trump what Pam was capable of. Part of her felt this concern was justified and smart, another part of her felt like she was falling for the Joker's propaganda that he was capable of things other men—or women—were not.

After an exhaustive meeting, they finally agreed to the terms of the cartels' new demands and went their separate ways.

While the Range Rovers and Town Cars pulled out of the abandoned parking lot, Harley leaned against Marty's little red Camaro and watched him light a cigarette.

"What the fuck are ya lookin' at me like that for?" Marty snapped, sounding nervous. The sun had set while they'd been talking inside the warehouse, and Harley could only just make out his face in the darkened lot. He was nervous. Hiding something. But he wouldn't be hiding it for long.

"Did you know?" Harley asked calmly, making Marty sputter as he exhaled a lungful of smoke and turned to face her fully.

"Of course I bloody didn't," he hissed, looking aggrieved like he was under siege from all sides.

"But you've spoken to him?" Harley lifted a knowing eyebrow as he took a long drag off his cigarette, delaying having to speak to her. She waited patiently, imagining how Marty and the Joker's reunion would have played out. Whiskey and cocaine? Hugs and back-slapping? An FYI text just letting his BFF know he was in town?

"He wants to see you," Marty said reluctantly, shooting her a cursory glance.

"Me too," Harley nodded. "All I need to know is when and where."

Marty winced and took another drag off his cigarette. "You sure that's a good idea?"

"Why?" Harley cocked her head to the side, eyeing Marty narrowly. "Do you think he'll try to kill me?"

"Kill you?" Marty nearly laughed as he shook his head. "Are you tellin' me you aren't feeling...  _anything_  about him comin' back from the fuckin' dead?"

Harley tightened her arms over her chest, her shoulders tensing as she considered her next words carefully. She had yet to vocalize to anyone, including her friends, what she was feeling. Her anxiety over not being able to predict the Joker's next move was taking precedent, but beneath that were a torrent of different emotions, all of them conflicting and exhausting and confusing. The idea of confiding this to Marty was laughable. Maybe with a bar and a couple of gin and tonics between them, like they used to talk when Harley was living above Grin and Bare It in those early days. The idea that that period was now considered 'good times' was also laughable considering the turmoil Harley had experienced then, but it didn't make it any less true.

"My feelings aren't important," Harley said warily, her shoulders tensing further. "I want to know what his endgame is so I can prepare myself... and my friends."

"Your friends including Sofia Falcone," Marty said bitterly.

" _Yes_ ," Harley snapped back without hesitating.

Marty made a face and rubbed the back of his neck aggressively like he was trying to rub away some thought or feeling. Harley sighed, seeing this was getting them nowhere, and dropped her arms down by her sides.

"What does he want?" She asked, rubbing a hand over her face to ward off the creeping exhaustion.

"Who the fuck knows," Marty said evasively, still rubbing the back of his neck. "But I'm worried for ya both."

Like all of the Joker's favorite followers, Marty was happy to be left in the dark until the time came for him to learn whatever sliver of information was deemed appropriate. Harley had hated being on the receiving end of that delegation of information, that secrecy, but she now utilized the same method almost instinctively, including with Marty. And it had saved her life and given her the upper hand more times than she could count.

"When did you speak to him?" She asked, more calmly.

"Yesterday," Marty said slowly. "And a few hours ago."

Harley nodded slowly. "When and where?"

"Midnight," Marty replied reluctantly, pulling another cigarette from the pack stashed in his shirt pocket. "At Grin's."

"At  _Grin's?"_  Harley repeated incredulously. "No way. Does he think we're just going to grab a cocktail and catch up?"

"If you're in public, neither of you can do anything... dangerous," Marty insisted, making Harley roll her eyes.

"So you're choosing the venue," she sighed, folding her arms defensively again. "Fine, my old room at Grin's. That way if a gun goes off, you can rush up and save one of us."

"Bloody hell," Marty swore, looking pained.

* * *

Nikki drove Harley to the Stacked Deck where Detective Bullock was waiting for her. She took twenty minutes for a power nap in the back of the car when they arrived. Bullock could wait a little longer, and if she was going to be out for the rest of the night, she needed all the rest she could get to be cognitively sound when she faced the Joker.

In only a couple of hours, she would be in front of him again, alone and attempting to play mental chess with the most dangerous man she'd ever met. Harley's anxiety over what he had up his sleeve and his capacity for out-maneuvering her was slowly getting consumed by the torrent of emotion brewing inside her, feelings driven solely by the anticipation of what it would feel like to be in his presence again, and this time not be shocked by the fact that he was breathing.

Harley raked her fingers through her hair, trying to remind herself that she needed to focus on the meeting— _another meeting_ —at hand instead of her feelings. She climbed out of the car and strolled into the Stacked Deck through the front entrance, nodding to the barkeep cleaning a glass. The bar was full of its usual gaggle of thieves and thugs, all hunched over their drinks at the bar and tables dotted around the room. There was a fresh patch of dark brown on the floor in front of the bar, blood that hadn't been moped up in time for the stain to come out.

Bullock was sitting at a small, circular table near the door, looking like he was ready to bolt if he needed to. His shoulders were up around his ears, a pint of beer clutched in his papery hands, his face tipping forward every few seconds to take huge gulps of the amber liquid.

"Shit!" Bullock nearly jumped out of his chair when Harley dropped into the seat across from him.

"How are you, Bullock?" She forced a grin, watching his eyes dart around anxiously before landing on her face. It never ceased to amuse her how nervous she made him. Sure, their working relationship was initially formed in back alleyways with threats of maiming and death, but recently things had become much more cordial between them, or at least for Harley. They would meet in public now, grabbing a drink to go with casual conversation about the goings-on at the MCU.

Harley didn't show her real face to many people anymore, only those she trusted or those too stupid or lower down the food chain to do anything meaningful about knowing what she really looked like. Bullock fell into the very small first category. People always reacted the same when they saw her without warpaint for the first time. How could this pretty blonde with big blue eyes be Harley Quinn? Just as Harley had felt the first time she saw the Joker without warpaint on, that very first day at Arkham.

She could feel herself deflate a little because in many ways everything Harley had built for herself she'd built off him. Harley Quinn had been a frightening concept from the start because the media tied her to the Joker. The name Harley Quinn was bestowed on her as a play on the Joker. Harley Quinn had only co-opted the Joker's warpaint because it proved an effective tool, but one she'd learned from him nonetheless. None of those strengths would work against the Joker, and Harley struggled to remind herself of everything she was capable of without the fear tactics of the media and some damn face paint.

"You alright?" Bullock asked, eyeing Harley uncertainly.

"Yeah," she flashed him another grin that didn't reach her eyes. "Tell me what Gordon is doing about the Joker."

"He can't do much," Bullock admitted, pulling off his trilby hat to rake a hand through greasy, graying ginger hair. "It's not like anyone's  _seen_  the Joker or he's made any threats... but..."

"But Vicki Vale's reporting tends to pan out," Harley nodded, bracing her elbows on the rickety table and leaning forward. "Is Gordon nervous?"

"Nervous?" Bullock shot her a loaded look as he shoved his hat back down on his head. "He's spending a lot of time on the roof if ya know what I mean."

"The Batman?" Harley inferred.

"Listen, you got bigger problems than the Batman," Bullock hunched forward, his cheeks reddening noticeably. "Well, maybe not, it depends on what you think about the Batman compared to—"

" _Bullock_ ," Harley cut him off, her eyebrows raising meaningfully to get him back on track.

"Right, listen. Your uh _... friends_  at the GCPD? We all know Sofia Falcone is in charge, but we also know you took out Penguin and put her in his place."

"Yes," Harley said slowly, wondering where he was going with this. What their employees at the GCPD  _thought_  about the politics of power changing hands had never really occurred to her. Keeping them scared and well paid had proven to be more than enough to woo a majority of Gotham's police force. Why would that change because Sofia was in charge now? But the way Bullock was looking at Harley, she knew she was missing something significant in his point.

"What?" She snapped, and his cheeks reddened further.

"Well uh, if the Joker is back..." Bullock twisted to look over each shoulder before facing Harley again, wincing. "Some of the boys are wondering if that means we're gonna be working for him soon. And maybe some people might not wanna do that..."

Harley bristled, understanding what he was suggesting. That she would loyally default back to the Joker upon his return, and power would change hands again.

"That's not going to happen," she said haughtily.

"Yeah?" Bullock looked unconvinced. "So... uh... you guys aren't..." He seemed to struggle to find the right words to express himself and settled for awkwardly tapping the tips of his index fingers together.

"Are you really asking me if we're  _fucking_?" Harley hissed, feeling her face get hot. "You assholes work for Sofia Falcone! If I have to turn every last one of you into mindless drones to keep you from gossiping, you bet your ass I will."

"I'm sorry, I'm  _sorry,"_  Bullock pleaded, looking pained. "Ya gotta understand, Harley. These guys respect you, but the Joker? God, he's a fuckin'  _terrorist_  who wants to destroy  _everything_. You can't respect someone like that. At least you're reasonable and...  _sane."_

Harley huffed impatiently, mildly placated by this reasoning. It was a small win that she was a better leader for the corrupt than the Joker, but she was still unnerved to hear the GCPD were discussing her private life.

"So uh, are you gonna do something about him?" Bullock continued, shifting uncomfortably on his stool. "I kinda get the impression, ya know, knowing you a little bit now, that maybe things didn't end so well for you two before he disappeared... so I figure... maybe I can tell the boys you're gonna take care of it, right?"

Harley wanted to scream. She wanted to fling the table over and shoot every last man in the bar. She wanted to run down the street, shrieking profanities and destroying every single unfortunate thing that crossed her path.

"Yes," she said instead, her voice as cold as a glacier, and it seemed to reassure Bullock that Harley had the situation in hand, just like she always did.

"Good, I knew you would. I told the boys you would," he said, trying to chuckle in a friendly, bashful kind of way like this was all very embarrassing for both of them.

"Now  _that'_ s out of the way," Harley said sarcastically, still offended that the Neanderthals at the GCPD were discussing whether or not she was sleeping with the Joker. "Let's talk about what Gordon's been up to."

She debriefed Bullock for two hours, questioning him relentlessly to get every piece of information out of him she could. The impression she got was that Gordon and the Batman caught wind of the Joker's return before Vicki's article had been published and were freaking out, but couldn't do much until the Joker made a move. That was almost certainly coming, but  _when_  was another story entirely.

That was what Harley had to find out when she saw him, something that weighed heavily on her as she left Bullock and walked to Grin and Bare It. It was usually about a twenty-minute walk, but she took a longer, winding path and dragged her feet, needing to clear her head.

Now she had Bullock and the corrupt GCPD force on her case to 'take care' of the Joker too. Who was going to come to her next? The Mayor? The Batman? When had it become her responsibility to police the Joker? How had she positioned herself in this role? Was it merely that they thought no one else—except for maybe the Batman—was capable of reigning him in?

Harley was so tired of being so many things to so many people. She had asked them to believe in her, or she had forced them to fear her, and now she was the one they turned to for  _everything._  She was physically, emotionally, and intellectually  _exhausted_.

When she finally reached the club, she was nearly twenty minutes late and still taking her time. Each step closer made her tired mind spin off in a new direction as she began to imagine what facing the Joker in this context would be like. Without the theatricality, without the thugs and gang members, just the guise of a civil discussion that was really about trying to find holes in his plans, and God only knew what he really wanted from her.

What did he want? Shit... if that wasn't a question she hadn't asked herself a thousand times in a thousand different situations.

Almost as many times as she asked  _herself_  what  _she_  wanted.

As she walked past the club's entrance, Harley saw Marty behind the bar as promised, ready to intercede should violence break out, though what he would do if some kind of physical altercation took place, she didn't know. She couldn't picture the Joker attacking her unless she provoked him, and she found the idea that the motivation behind this meeting was to kill her quickly and cleanly highly unlikely. Mind games, she expected. Mind games and some vicious quips to get her fired up.

Maybe he just wanted to see what she'd do if he got her in a room alone. He'd always found it entertaining watching her make choices. Like a pet, or a child.

Harley crossed the gravel parking lot to the fire escape leading up to her old room and realized she wasn't sure if he would be dressed up in full Joker regalia. She fingered the paint pallet tucked safely in the inner pocket of her suit jacket, thinking that if this was a meeting with anyone else she would have applied her warpaint. But this was  _him,_  and there was no point hiding what he already knew so well.

Feeling almost sick with anticipation, Harley started to climb the fire escape, trying to focus on her hands and feet instead of the endless possibilities of what could happen once she got to the top. She nearly faltered when she was high enough to see that the room's dim lamp was on and the window open, and a cowardly desire to turn and flee instead of face what was coming hit her square in the chest. But that wasn't a choice she got to make. She  _had_  to do this.

The Joker's back was to the window when Harley finally reached the top of the fire escape, her heart thumping madly in her chest like she was running a race instead of simply  _scared_. This was fear, she knew it to be as basic as that, but she felt incapable of mastering it as she sat on the window ledge and swung her legs into the room as the Joker turned to face her.

It was immediately obvious that he'd been busy. He wore a cheap gray suit that was rumpled like he'd been wearing it for weeks, and there was a faded smear of red paint on the collar of his shirt. Harley's eyes drifted from his shirt up to his face, taking in the sharp line of his jaw, the familiar curve of his scars, and the fine arch of his brow. His hair was different, a little shorter, and even in the dim light Harley could see it was lighter— _blonder_ —and she focused on his hair for as long as she reasonably could, right up until the Joker took a purposeful step forward and caught her eye.

His eyes were as dark and intense as Harley remembered them, glowing tiger-like as they swept over her a few times, making her throat tighten.

Neither of them had spoken yet, but the tension in the room was impossibly thick, and Harley felt like she couldn't breathe because of it. The shitty smirk he'd given her in the alley the night before was gone, replaced with the cautious, intense stare she's never been able to be unaffected by. She realized then that even if his original purpose in meeting had been the same as hers— _business_ —the energy in the room now was undeniably and frighteningly  _personal_.

"So... you're not dead," she said coldly, moving closer so she didn't feel like she was cowering against the wall.

"Looks that way..." the Joker agreed in a low, gravelly voice, matching her steps with his own.

Harley licked her lips, willing her pulse to slow down as she tried to think of something,  _anything,_  to say. Instead, she found herself inching closer, close enough that she could reach out and touch him if she wanted to.

Something about this thought, that the Joker was corporeal and touchable, made relief flood her brain like a drug. Relief that he was alive and she hadn't killed him. That she was in the same room as him now, and she was fully capable of touching him. He wasn't a ghost or a monster; he was human, warm and breathing. He was right there in front of her, his dark eyes darting around her face as she stared back at him, finally accepting that he was back, and completely confused about where she factored into the world now that he was in it too.

He shifted forward so they were toe-to-toe, his tongue poking out to swipe over his scarred bottom lip. Harley had almost forgotten those weird little ticks, and seeing it now made her feel...  _present_.

She almost jumped when he lifted a hand to brush her bangs aside with two fingers, smoothing them off her forehead.

"You changed your hair," he observed quietly, his gaze shifting back to hers.

"You're blonde," Harley replied weakly, her voice strangely breathless.

All thoughts of what she should do, of what she  _had_  to do, of what everyone  _wanted_  her to do, they fled Harley's brain entirely. She laid her hand on the Joker's elbow and slid her palm up his arm to feel the cheap fabric of his suit jacket and the lean muscle beneath it. Her fingers curled around his bicep as she lifted her eyes to meet his again, feeling like she was hanging off a cliff's edge.

Then he started to reach for her, and Harley immediately moved to join him without questioning it. Her hands flew up to wrap around the base of his skull as their mouths connected, hesitantly like they'd forgotten how they were supposed to do it. But then Harley parted her lips to deepen the kiss, her tongue searching out his, and he threw an arm around her waist to pull her closer, sending desire swooping through her body so intensely she felt it in her fingertips.

Harley pushed herself up on her toes and slung an arm around the Joker's neck, her fingers digging into his shoulder as their lips became more frantic and she struggled to get closer. She'd never been able to get close enough, no matter how hard she tried, and she damn near purred when the Joker thrust his hand under the back of her shirt, his fingers splaying out across the bare skin of her lower back.

Harley threaded her fingers into his hair and pulled it tight as his hand fought against her shirt and jacket to slide up her spine, hauling her up against him until she was almost off her feet. They staggered across the room until the backs of Harley's legs connected with the bed, and when she fell back she dragged him down on top of her, her heart leaping in her throat as the mattress creaked around them.

He grabbed the collar of her shirt and yanked it out to the side, making a button pop off as his mouth moved from her lips down her jaw to her neck, attempting to taste more of her. Harley forced one of her hands between them to cup him through his pants, and she felt his breath fan out warm across her throat when she gave him an impatient squeeze. Understanding what she wanted, the Joker quickly shifted to the side, allowing enough space between them that they could hurriedly fumble with buttons and zips and belts. And once Harley managed to wiggle her pants down past her knees, the Joker braced an elbow beside her head, their unsteady breathing mingling together as he guided himself inside her.

Harley swallowed a breathless whine when he sank into her fully, her hands groping his back blindly as she fought back more quiet sounds of pleasure. He fucked her slowly at first, but she dug her nails into his shoulders and canted her hips up to meet his, encouraging him to fuck her harder.

Harley's eyes closed as arousal pooled low in her belly, her head falling back against the sticky bedspread until the Joker grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled it hard, making her eyes fly open. He was staring down at her grimly, and she could do nothing but stare dumbly back at him as her body began to climb higher and higher. He tried to squeeze a hand between them to help her finish, but Harley arched up off the bed before he could, biting down on her bottom lip to stifle an undignified moan as pleasure rolled through her body like a crashing wave. She felt the Joker's hand tighten to a fist in her hair as he folded forward to press his face against her neck, coming with a throaty huff before he collapsed on top of her.

His weight was crushing, but Harley didn't care. She could feel his chest heaving against hers as they both fought to control their breathing, another sign that he was just as vibrantly alive as he'd always been. In all her life, Harley had never met a person as thoroughly  _alive_  as the Joker. She ran her hand over his hair absentmindedly, feeling the greasy strands beneath her fingers as she tried to catch her breath, blissfully free of the frustration that had been plaguing her for too long.

Then the Joker lifted his head to look at her, his hand still tangled in her hair as they eyed each other warily. Harley watched his eyes dart around her face, searching for something that made her feel like she was supposed to  _give_  him something. She opened her mouth to ask him what he wanted, but he abruptly pushed himself up onto his hands, straightening his arms before he climbed off her, his eyes darting away as he got to his feet.

With her knees still parted, Harley watched him tuck himself into his pants and do up the fastenings before he rolled his shoulders back and raked his hair off his face. She realized he was leaving, and she pulled her legs together, suddenly feeling numb and foolish. He thought it was a mistake, she realized, watching him shove his shirt into his pants and give the lapels of his suit jacket a firm yank to straighten them. He hadn't intended for this to happen, and he hadn't wanted it to happen.

He raked his hair back again, then shot Harley a look she couldn't decipher before crossing the room to grab his gun off the dresser. Harley sat up quickly, self-preservation kicking in as phrases like _'catching them with their pants down'_ raced through her brain. But the Joker only tucked the gun into the back of his pants and loped over to the window, sending Harley one last loaded look before he clambered out onto the fire escape and disappeared into the night.

* * *

**A/N: Eeeeek. Let's meet in my old room? Really Harley? What did you _think_ was going to happen, hmm?**

**So other than that accidental hook up, I know this was kind of a nothing burger chapter, at least compared to the last few non-stop action chapters. Think of it as like a brief lull to recalibrate before all hell breaks loose. Eventually, this shit is going to need to wind down since we've only ("only" lol) got 8 chapters left.**

**The Joker's POV is going to feature heavily from here on out. Yay! But prepare** **yourselves for a few miserable chapters. The payoff in the second half of Part 3 is worth it (I think)!**

**Next: The Joker continues to make life difficult for Harley, as does everyone else.**

**Please comment review! I don't think many of your questions were answered but they will be.**


	25. Chapter 25

The Harlequin

25.

* * *

The Joker scrambled down the fire escape, his pulse pounding in his throat and his scalp still tingling after that very  _unexpected_  encounter with Harley. He'd been celibate as a monk for months, since the last time he'd been with her in fact, so their latest uh,  _joining_  had been brief and unnervingly intense. He'd go so far to say he even felt  _rattled,_ which was unfamiliar territory. But  _many_  things related to Harley ventured into unfamiliar territory.

He jumped the second half of the journey down the ladder, hoping a harsh landing would jolt him out of the irritating, lingering fog of a particularly potent orgasm. His feet slammed into the gravel, sending a shockwave of pain through his ankles and shins, which helped clear his head in a small way. His gun fell out of the back of his pants, and he nearly tripped and fell on his ass ducking down to pick it up, grumbling under his breath as he straightened back up and loped across the parking lot to the piece of shit Volvo he'd stolen for the evening.

Harley was probably still up there, fretting over what it all meant as she was prone to doing — probably getting paranoid that he was trying to mess with her, as she was also prone to doing. Oh, he  _had_  intended to mess with her, he just hadn't meant for  _that_  to happen. He hadn't even considered it as a possibility.

He'd already known what her end game would be by agreeing to meet—she'd try to pry some information out of him, and maybe he would have let a few details slip, just to keep things interesting. Plus, he'd been curious about what she had to say. Somehow, he found it hard to believe she didn't have a  _few_  thoughts about shooting him.

Not to mention, he  _did_  have a job to do, one that revolved around her friend Poison Ivy. Getting a little information out of  _Harley_ about her gal pal had been at the top of the Joker's list since he got back.

But he hadn't seen that coming, in part because he'd forgotten, or at least compartmentalized away, certain things about Harley. What she felt like... what she  _tasted_  like and what she _smelled_  like—those were  _particularly_  affecting—and most of all what it was like to be trapped under those cold, fearless blue eyes of hers, drawing him in and making him feel powerless. He remembered  _clearly_  now that he'd found her ability to generate those unfamiliar feelings intriguing. Now, he knew she was willing to kill him to get what she wanted, so he had to be more cautious around her.  _Definitely_  not underestimate her. That would be like underestimating the Batman, except the Batman would never  _really_  try to kill him.

The Joker was not interested in being dead or even worse, flat on his back for three months.

When he'd woken up in that blinding white room, with tubes sticking out of his body, making it possible for him to breathe and piss and eat, all he'd been focused on was getting the fuck out of that bed. There had been a certain amount of resentment that Harley put him there, but that faded. Resentment wasn't useful.

Once he was free of the tubes and able to get around without wheezing like a centenarian he'd gotten back to work—interesting, _violent_  work that took him away from Gotham—and Harley was relegated to the back of his mind.  _G_ _enerally,_  the Joker didn't dwell on what the future held for him, including whether he'd ever return to Gotham or see her again. He didn't dwell or reminisce on the past either, so she just became this weird, abstract moment for him, like a fuzzy out of focus picture.

Now he remembered all too clearly what it was about her he'd liked so much. But being close to death made him realize he wanted to keep breathing more than he wanted her.

The Joker reached the Volvo, which was parked beneath a lone, flickering street lamp, and when he looked down to unlock the car, he noticed a widening stain near the zipper of his pants.

_Jesus._  If that didn't say it all.

Well, he reasoned as he threw the car door open, at least it wasn't the new suit.

* * *

Shellshocked and not sure what she was supposed to do, Harley lay back down on the bed and stared up at the water-stained ceiling, replaying what had just happened in her mind and feeling... stunned, surprised, guilty, and a little bit hurt too. The sticky residue coating the inside of her thighs, evidence of what she'd just given in to, was doing nothing to help her stop thinking about it. Including the look the Joker gave her before he practically jumped out the window.

There was a healthy dose of self-loathing in the mix too. That Harley had been weak enough to forget everything and hop into bed with him. He wasn't an impulsive person—he did everything for a reason—but he'd seemed just as surprised as Harley was. It  _felt_  like he wanted it as badly as she did, but he'd seduced her before to control her, and she wouldn't put it past him to do it again. It was a thought that made her face grow hot as she imagined how this could all have been planned.

But it didn't feel that way.

Maybe he just wanted to get her out of his system. Maybe he'd planned it for that reason.

But it didn't feel that way.

She forced herself to sit up, smoothing her palms over her face and through her hair before she used her fingers to scrape away what she could of the mess between her legs and wipe it on the bedspread. Then she pulled her trousers back up and stood, fastening the button and zip as she stepped into her high heels.

When Nikki arrived to pick her up, Harley climbed in the back of the car and unsuccessfully tried to pass out, in part so she would stop  _thinking_. The exhaustion of not sleeping for nearly forty-eight hours had worn away completely after her  _encounter_  with the Joker, and she remained wide awake throughout the drive Downtown. The others were all asleep when she got home, aside from Mini Ling who was still on the couch, eating leftover pizza and watching a black and white movie. He waved cheerfully and Harley, still not feeling tired, kicked off her heels and flopped down beside him.

"You're up late, boss," Mini Ling observed happily, tossing his pizza crust into the grease-stained box on the floor.

"I can't sleep," Harley shrugged, her eyes drifting from the oversized flat-screen playing 'Young Frankenstein' to Mini Ling, and she frowned thoughtfully at him. "Hey Mini, what's your real name?

"Li-Wang," he replied with a smile. "But everyone calls me Leo aside from my father."

"Westernized version?" She raised an eyebrow, realizing she'd never asked him about himself before, only about his family connections. "Where did you go to school?"

"A prep school up in Maine," he replied obediently. "Harvard then Yale Law."

"Wow," Harley nodded, impressed. "So why are you back in Gotham working for the Lucky Hand?"

"It's what all of the first sons do," Mini Ling, or Leo, shrugged. "My brother and I are twins, so we both came back to the family business." He made a face, and Harley's eyes widened.

"So why did you come back if you didn't want to?"

"Honor," he shrugged. "It's what we do in our families. We get degrees that help the family business and come back to prepare to take over. But it's only the first sons. I have a sister in Central City. She comes home for holidays, but she has nothing to do with the business."

"What does she do in Central City?" Harley asked, grateful for the distraction.

"She's an engineer at a renewable energy start-up," Leo replied, sounding proud.

"Wow." Harley tried to imagine a world where she would feel honor-bound to do something so drastic and life-altering. She couldn't, but then again, she'd never had a family to feel bound to. "Does anyone not come back?"

"Almost," Leo said thoughtfully "Boss Tzu's first son Hugo is a doctor, which is acceptable, but then he specialized in psychiatry and got so invested in his work that refused to come back to Gotham. Boss Tzu wasn't happy about that, so he disinherited him. Hugo even changed his last name, and we didn't hear from him for  _years_. Then about... eighteen months ago, he showed up on Boss Tzu's doorstep, and somehow he proved himself worthy."

"I think I met Hugo the other night," Harley said thoughtfully, remembering the smug, round-faced man with glasses from the alleyway, the one who brought the Joker back into her life. "Hugo, the psychiatrist turned drug lord." Harley pursed her lips. "Interesting."

They watched the rest of 'Young Frankenstein' in companionable silence, followed by 'Willie Wonka.' Harley fell asleep sometime around the girl turning into a blueberry, and when she woke up, the sun was rising and Leo had gone to bed, but not before he'd put a blanket over her. The corner of her mouth twitched up in a small smile as she shook off the blanket and padded back to her room.

Remembering Sofia's note about sleeping in her clothes, Harley shucked her suit and shirt, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and pulled on a pair of silk shorts and a matching vest that had come with Sofia's treasure chest of clothes. She fell bonelessly into the bed, which was overly soft and large enough for four people to sleep in. Before she fell asleep, she had the briefest flash of a fantasy about the Joker being in there with her, but her exhausted brain brushed it off, and soon she was blissfully unconscious.

* * *

Harley slept for nearly a day and a half. She would wake up and look around her room—not  _her_  room, just the room she was currently occupying—and lick her dry lips as she tried to work out what she would do about the Joker. Then the prospect of getting up would seem too daunting, and she'd fall back asleep.

The smell of bacon cooking roused her the next afternoon, making her stomach rumble enviously. Moving sluggishly, Harley wandered into the kitchen to find Pam, Dinah, and Roxy sitting around the bar while Leo cooked for them. It looked like they'd been having a lazy day in their pajamas, and Harley could hear Pam lecturing the others about their carbon footprint.

"Look who it is!" Roxy chirped as Harley pulled up a bar stool for herself, sleepily scraping her hair off her face. "You been sleepin' forever, Harley! Ya musta been tired."

"Very tired," Harley agreed. "Hey Leo, will you grab me some coffee?"

"Leo?" Dinah asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"It's what his friends call him," Harley smirked as Leo deposited a mug in front of her.

"Have there been any…  _updates_  about…" Pam looked nervously between Dinah and Roxy before she shot Harley a meaningful look, obviously not wanting to discuss the Joker in front of them. "Maybe we should talk outside?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Harley yawned, stretching her arms over her head. She dropped her elbows on the marble counter and wrapped her hands around her coffee cup, then looked at each of the girls in turn. "We know Joker's back, and he's working for the Lucky Hand," she started gravely.

"Everybody is all clued in," Pam interrupted impatiently. "We want to know what he wants and what we're going to do about it."

_"We,"_  Harley scoffed, and didn't miss the way Pam's eyes widened indignantly. "I spoke to him last night, or, the night before last," Harley said haltingly, getting more wide-eyed looks from the girls.

"You didn't tell us?" Pam demanded, her nostrils flaring.

"I haven't  _seen_  you," Harley pointed out, remembering her concerns about Pam's powers, another thing she would need to fix.

"So what's going to happen?" Dinah frowned, effectively cutting through their squabble. "What do we have to do?"

"He's…" Harley rubbed the bridge of her nose, trying to think of something to say that would reassure and empower the girls, and also not leave any room for suspicion that she'd slept with the Joker. During her day in bed, Harley had had ample time to think about the problem, and the only rational solution she could come up with was to kill him like everyone wanted her to do.

That was pretty much her only choice.

"What did he say to you?" Pam's eyes narrowed, but Harley just shook her head.

"Nothing helpful," she said evasively. "This isn't going to be easy."

"I disagree," Pam announced impatiently, her eyes darting around their group furtively. "We'll have the drones give him a reason to be at the Murder Dock tonight. We'll wait for him, and then you can kill him, and all of this will be over."

"That isn't going to work," Harley sighed, closing her eyes to rally her patience. "If he can tell which Lucky Hand guards are drones, he might be able to torture information out of them. We need to be smarter than that and assume they're all compromised."

"Well, what do you suggest?" Pam huffed, throwing up her hands. "Because it sounds like you're trying to draw this out."

"I'm not trying to draw this out," Harley snapped. "I just know how he works, and if you want us all to end up dead, you're going the right way about it."

"She's right, Pam," Dinah spoke up, frowning. "If Harley says it's too easy, then it's too easy."

"Maybe Marty could help us," Roxy suggested with a smile. "The Joker was always comin' round the club to talk to him. They were pals!"

"They're still pals," Harley said drily but shot Roxy a grateful smile for attempting to be helpful, unlike the others.

"So we use Marty as bait," Pam suggested. "I can turn him into a drone and—"

_"No,"_  Harley cut her off emphatically. "That's too obvious."

"I haven't heard you offer any viable suggestions yet, Harley," Pam bristled. "Please contribute if you have something."

Harley's eyes rolled so hard she nearly strained them.

"The Hand has one more big storehouse in Oldtown," she explained. "We'll destroy it tonight, make it look like the Joker did it, and tomorrow Vicki Vale will write about the Joker turning on his new employers."

"How is she going to know to do that?" Pam frowned.

"The same way she knew that the Joker was back and working for the Lucky Hand," Harley replied, struggling to control her temper. Why did she have to explain  _everything?_  "I'll tell her."

"Ooooh," Roxy cooed, filling the stunned silence that followed. "Oh, that makes sense. That's real smart, Harley!"

"Thank you, Roxy," Harley said, shooting her another grateful smile.

"How does this help us get to him?" Pam demanded incredulously. "You're just giving him a platform to freak people out."

"Everyone expects him to do something drastic and unexpected to freak people out. That's the whole  _point,"_  Harley snapped, feeling her nerves begin to fray from Pam's constant attacks. She took a deep breath. "We're going to make things uncomfortable for him with his new bosses," she continued.

This seemed to be just enough information to satisfy Pam, making her slip into a thoughtful silence though she was worrying her bottom lip relentlessly. Harley couldn't understand why she didn't just trust her to do the right thing—had she ever led them astray before?

"We need to do this with as little help from the drones as possible," Harley continued, turning to Dinah and Roxy. "We need four school buses. Take Nikki and Sasha with you, but don't use anyone else."

"Where are they going to get school buses?" Pam wondered aloud.

"I have an idea," Dinah said, pushing her stool back from the bar. "Come on, Roxy, let's get dressed."

"I ain't never driven a school bus before!" Roxy laughed, her voice fading as she and Dinah disappeared into their bedrooms, leaving Pam and Harley alone with Leo, who was still tidying up their lunch.

Harley moved from her corner of the bar onto the stool Dinah had just vacated beside Pam, fixing her with a grim look.

"We need to talk," she said gravely. "Pam... I'm worried about what your powers are doing to you."

Pam's eyes nearly bulged out of her skull. " _You_  are worried about  _me?_  Are you kidding?" She huffed defensively.

"Look at yourself," Harley hissed, her face crumpling. "This isn't  _you,_  Pam. The more drones you make, the more you..." She struggled to find the right, least offensive words, but before she could come up with something appropriate, Pam jumped back in.

"You didn't tell me you were speaking to Vicki Vale," she said, sounding hurt, which nearly made Harley's mouth fall open in shock.

"So  _what?"_  She demanded incredulously. "Why don't you trust me anymore? You're being so... anxious and  _precious."_

_"Precious?"_  Pam's nostrils flared, and behind her there was a crash as Leo dropped the frying pan he was wiping dry. He turned on his heel and marched out of the kitchen under Pam's silent instructions. "I am _worried_  about you," Pam hissed, her mouth tightening.

"Look, I know it's tense for all of us right now," Harley placated, "But..."

"No, I'm worried about  _you,"_  Pam insisted, growing more distraught.

"Why are you worried about  _me_?" Harley demanded, searching Pam's face when she didn't immediately reply. " _Pam_?"

"Because it's  _him,"_  she admitted reluctantly, her voice softening as she rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. "I remember how you talked about him when you thought he was dead. Harley… you were in  _love_  with him."

Harley bristled, feeling like she was being accused of something terrible in this declaration, even if it was delivered with careful concern for her feelings.

"No," Harley shook her head, and opened her mouth to protest, but Pam cut her off again.

"I know, I know. You don't believe in love because you're an orphan and emotionally stunted and smarter than all the rest of us mere mortals who fall in love. I know, I get it," Pam huffed impatiently. She crossed her arms and shook her head, looking like she was trying to convince herself of something before she set her green eyes on Harley again. "But that doesn't change the fact that it's true."

Harley had to try very hard to control her expression as she digested what Pam was saying. She found the romantic sentiment nauseating, but the substance of it was there. When she'd thought the Joker was dead and she had some time to reevaluate their relationship, she'd thought back on it wistfully, even made excuses for his behavior. It hadn't seemed like a pathetic thing to do at the time because he was supposed to be  _dead_.

"I need to know if you still... have feelings for him," Pam continued, her mouth turning down at the corners, and Harley continued to carefully monitor her expression as she tried to decide what to say.

She didn't want to lie, but Pam could not know she'd jumped on top of the Joker the first chance she got. Pam would see that as a betrayal, and Harley couldn't cope with that on top of everything else. All she knew was she was still as intensely drawn to him as she'd ever been, but as impossible and unsustainable as it had seemed before, now there was no chance she'd be able to explore whatever she may feel for him. He had to go.

"I don't know how I feel," Harley answered honestly, her throat feeling thick. "But I know I don't have a choice. He has to be dealt with but…" she trailed off, the words ' _but I wish it didn't have to be me_ ' lingering on her tongue, unspoken. But it felt too self-pitying, too obvious a clue as to what was really going on, so instead, she said: "But I won't let you down."

Pam's face morphed into a sad but pleased smile, and she threw her arms around Harley, hugging her tight and burying her face in Harley's shoulder.

"Okay, okay," Harley chuckled, patting Pam on the back awkwardly. "The emotionally stunted orphan needs to order a few hundred gallons of napalm."

Pam pulled back, her eyes wide. "Napalm?"

* * *

Sergey, who Harley had come to realize was a legitimate pyromaniac, provided the napalm. He gave Harley an address for an old factory in the Meatpacking District where he just happened to be keeping the large quantity of napalm she required.

"Nice work," she grinned as Sergey sucked on a filterless cigarette and shrugged carelessly.

Each of the four school buses Dinah and Roxy procured took a different route to Oldtown to avoid suspicion—a caravan of school buses full of napalm in the middle of the night  _might_  attract attention—and by 2 AM they were all positioned around a massive warehouse smack in the center of Oldtown. These warehouses were some of the oldest in Gotham, uncared for and made from rotting wood at the turn of the last century. It was a silly place to leave anything of value.

Once the buses were in place, Harley and Dinah hopped on the back of a pair of motorbikes driven by Sasha and Nikki and headed back to Range Rover where it was parked a few miles away. Roxy was hanging her head out the window, waiting for directions while Pam sat in the backseat, focusing on the men inside the building. Harley hopped off the back of the motorbike and leaned through the open back window to get Pam's attention.

"How many are in there?" She asked.

"Five," Pam replied softly. "Three of them are drones. They're just patrolling the warehouse."

"Good," Harley said. "Have them bring the other two outside in ten minutes."

Pam's eyes flew open, and she squinted at Harley in the dark. "What? Why?"

"Because the Joker likes to play with his food before he eats it," Harley said coldly, and after a beat, Pam nodded and closed her eyes. "Ten minutes," Harley reminded her, and Pam nodded again, exhaling a breath through pursed lips.

Harley jumped on the back of the motorbike and Sasha took off through the maze of warehouses with Nikki and Dinah close behind them. The bikes were noisy, their cranky motors whining and sputtering, easily arousing any suspicious Lucky Hand guards in the area. They circled the storehouse twice, making their presence known before stopping out front.

As they climbed off the bikes, the warehouse's front doors opened wide, and the Hand guards started shooting. Harley and Dinah took cover behind the bikes, the rattling of bullets quickly stopping once Pam's drones took over the situation, and soon enough three guards were frog-marching another two up to Harley and Dinah.

"What are we doing?" Dinah asked as Harley withdrew her modified automatic from the holster at her side.

"Leaving a message," she explained, taking aim and mowing down all five men. She heard Dinah gasp in surprise when their bullet-ridden bodies crumpled to the ground, but there wasn't time to spare Dinah's feelings, and frankly, Harley was getting sick of babying her. A strong stomach was needed in their line of work. She holstered her gun and checked her phone. They had three minutes until the buses driven by drones arrived.

Ignoring Dinah shifting uncomfortably beside her, Harley retrieved the knife she'd stashed in her holster before squatting down next to the first of the dead—or nearly dead—guards. He was still blinking and gurgling as Harley grabbed his chin and started to cut through the flesh of his cheek, giving him a Chelsea Smile. She heard Dinah's sharp intake of breath when she realized what was happening, but Harley ignored her, moving onto the next body and ordering Nikki and Sasha to help her with the others.

When they'd finished, Harley stood up and wiped her hands on her pants. They were slick with blood and Sofia would no doubt complain about her ruining yet another good suit. In the distance, she could hear the buses arrive, and she looked at Dinah to tell her it was time to go, but Dinah was staring down at the mutilated bodies, her eyes wide and alarmed.

"Dinah, we need to go," Harley said as the younger girl slowly lifted her eyes to hers, the barely concealed horror evident in her face. "Dinah," Harley said more firmly. "We have to go  _now_."

One of the buses appeared behind them, speeding through the main thoroughfare of the warehouse park. It flew past them and crashed into the front of the warehouse, and within seconds, three more buses collided with the other walls of the building, and it erupted in a massive ball of orange flames, flaring up into the night sky like dragon's breath.

The strength of the blast threw them all off their feet, sending the bikes clattering across the old concrete. Harley landed a few feet away from Dinah, her head cracking against the pavement. She groaned unhappily and propped herself up on her elbows to watch the fire crackle and burn as it consumed the warehouse. Napalm burned hotter and brighter than gasoline, and it was nearly blinding to watch, so blinding that she almost didn't notice the flap of a black cloak and the sound of two heavy feet landing behind her.

Still on her ass, Harley twisted around in time to see the Batman straighten up, his cape sweeping around him, and a snarl of irritation ripped out of her throat as she jumped to her feet.

"Jesus, you have terrible timing," Harley complained.

"And you're out of time," the Batman growled, lunging for her.

Harley feinted, dodging his attack as she raised her gun, hoping maybe just this  _once_  she would be able to kill  _one_  of the men she wanted dead. But he kicked her hand, making her yelp as she lost her grip on the gun. She managed to duck another punch, but he got her with the third one, cracking her across the face so hard her head and then her whole body snapped around as she fell to her knees.

Harley could feel the Batman looming over her, about to go in for a second attack when he roared in pain, and she looked up in time to see Dinah lowering her leg from a well-placed kick to the groin. He recovered quickly and attempted to put Dinah on the defensive, but she was smaller and quicker than he was, and even though his fists were more powerful, hers were more precise.

Harley watched them fight for longer than she should have, mesmerized by the fluid grace of Dinah's limbs flitting around the Batman's bulldozer-like brute force. Then he landed a punch to Dinah's stomach, making her stagger back for half a second before she jumped up and kicked the Batman in the chest hard enough to send him crashing to the ground.

"Nikki! Sasha!" Harley shouted, pulling herself to her feet. Her face was aching, and one of her ears was ringing as she moved to help the Russians get the bikes upright.

"Dinah!" She snapped, once the bikes had buzzed noisily to life and she was settled behind Sasha, but Dinah kept fighting. Haley shouted her name again as they drove past and mercifully, Dinah pulled herself away in time to jump on the back of Nikki's bike.

They sped off into the night, the fire blazing behind them.

* * *

Greg Olsen, Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist for the Gotham Globe, was not a big fan of Vicki Vale. She was an upstart investigative journalist that the editorial board called 'hungry.' Greg thought 'inconsistent' and 'irresponsible' were better words. Unnamed sources were important to good journalism, but Vale took it to a whole different level. Her most memorable reporting had never been properly sourced or verified, and it only ever panned out when there was a city-wide emergency.

Then there were those hit pieces she'd done on Harleen Quinzel, which magically stopped once she became Harley Quinn...

It was 6 AM when Vale arrived at the office, throwing herself down behind her new desk in the bullpen. She looked exhausted as she turned on her laptop, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, dark circles under her eyes, and her clothes a mess. She started typing furiously once her laptop was up and running, only slowing when she noticed Greg watching her from the door of his corner office.

"Big scoop?" he asked drily, curious despite himself. Even messy and exhausted, Vale wasn't bad to look at. Long, pale blonde hair, pouty lips, prominent canine teeth that were somehow alluring. Greg was willing to bet the way she looked played no small part in the editorial board's assessment of her.

Vale hesitated before answering like she thought he might steal her big story, but Greg had the ear of the editors, and she was smart enough to know that meant she needed to play nice. She nodded reluctantly, giving him an opening to move closer.

"Did you hear about the warehouse fire in Oldtown?" She asked, the chase of a good story making her eyes light up.

"Of course," Greg shrugged. "I'll take a shot in the dark and guess its something to do with the drug war. How many warehouses can they burn down anyway?"

"It was a Lucky Hand warehouse," Vicki said enthusiastically. "The Joker burned it down with napalm."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "And which of your many unnamed sources told you that?"

"I have quotes from Jim Gordon and the head of his forensics team," Vale retorted sourly. "They need to test the heroin to make sure it's the Lucky Hand's product, but the packaging had Chinese characters printed on it."

"And how do you know the Joker did it?" Greg demanded, shifting uncomfortably as he realized Vale really did have the goods this time. He wasn't  _not_  going to capitalize on that, especially when the Joker made for his most well-read columns.

"They found the bodies of members of the Lucky Hand beside the warehouse," Vale replied smugly. "One of them was burnt to a crisp, but four more had their faces cut into Chelsea Smiles. I saw them myself. And I have pictures."

"And I suppose one of your anonymous sources let you know what was going down so you could get to the crime scene before they cleaned it up?" Greg asked bitterly, even though he was already captioning his next column - ' _JOKER TURNS ON LUCKY HAND IN DRUG WAR: CHAOS ENSUES.'_  But Greg didn't want to get played by Vale and this mysterious source. "How do you know this wasn't all staged? That your source isn't using you?"

"I just report the facts," Vale shrugged, turning her attention to her laptop and not looking at Greg as she continued. "I'm pretty sure it's your job to give your opinions and speculate wildly."

_"Ha_ ," Greg scoffed. "No one's gonna forget you spent the last two years writing puff pieces for the Gazette. What was that one you got so much attention for?  _Mad Love?_  The Joker and Harley Quinn's demented love story?"

"Keep your eyes peeled, Olsen," Vale smirked at him, her sharp canine teeth glinting. "An updated version is coming soon. Well sourced with plenty of deep background to back it up."

"Sure, I'll believe it when I see it," Greg muttered, turning to slouch back to his office. He sat down in front of his laptop and opened a blank document, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he considered what reason the Joker could have for turning on his new employers. It was entirely within his remit, and creating chaos within the drug war was precisely the sort of thing he'd do. Maybe, he'd even decided to help end the war.

Yeah, that could be it. In his own twisted way, the Joker was trying to help, just like when he'd exposed the corruption of Gotham's biggest corporations and wealthiest families before he'd disappeared. There had been chaos, but through a Nietzschean lens, you  _could_  see chaos as a cleansing, purifying force for good.

Greg started typing, picking up speed as he mulled over what Vale had told him, and created a new story, one that would definitely get Greg an invite to Arturo Rodriguez's panel show.

They paid pretty well there.

* * *

After Vicki's column ran, informing Gotham that the Joker had turned on the Lucky Hand, and Greg Olsen's Op-ed followed it, claiming the Joker was trying to create a _'purifying form of chaos'_  to stop the drug war, followed by a Steve Lombard column in the Gothamite about how Greg Olsen was a hack and if the Joker had turned on the Lucky Hand it was to ramp up the drug war, Harley judged that the groundwork for 'drawing the Joker out' had been adequately laid.

That may have been good enough for Sofia and Yuri, who believed Gordon, the Batman, or Harley would take down the Joker before he could do any lasting damage, but Pam was not convinced. Pam knew a lack of action on his part was far worse than any real action, and she starting hounding Harley for the next step in their plan to destroy the Joker. What came next now that they'd made life a little uncomfortable for him? But Harley was drawing a blank even as she pretended to be working on an idea.

"Harley will figure it out," Roxy assured the others. "She always does!"

Dinah was pissed off and not bothering to hide it. She hadn't responded well to the bodies Harley mutilated, even with Pam endorsing the act as a necessary evil. Besides, both of them tried to reason with Dinah, they were dead men. Or  _almost_  dead men. It wasn't as barbaric as she was making it sound.

When Harley and Dinah were sparring the next day, Dinah made no attempt to hold back, slamming her elbow into Harley's face in the same sore spot the Batman had punched her.

"Oops," Dinah said dispassionately, bracing herself for Harley's attack.

Harley rubbed her cheek, scowling. She was sick of dealing with Dinah's childish attitude, and as she planted her feet, Harley prepared to utilize every ounce of her annoyance and frustration in her retaliation.

She lunged forward, but Dinah quickly had her on the back foot, forcing Harley to dodge and feint as she staggered backward across the patio. Then Dinah kicked her in the chest, making Harley yelp as her feet flew out from under her and she landed on her ass.

"What the hell!" She wheezed, glaring up at Dinah. "Why are you being such a  _cunt?_ "

Dinah let her arms drop out of the karate pose they'd been raised in, her eyes narrowing down at Harley.

"You may have the others fooled," she said grimly. "But I know you have no idea what to do about the Joker."

Massaging her chest, Harley huffed indignantly. "Not on  _purpose,"_  she promised, attempting to convey with her eyes that she was _trying_.

But trying wasn't enough for Dinah.

"Prove it," she said cooly, turning and breezing back into the penthouse.

* * *

In addition to Pam's decent into power-addiction and anxiety, Dinah's attitude problems, and the Joker's incredibly confusing reappearance in her life, Harley still had her responsibilities to Sofia to take care of. Janice Porter was taking heat from the Mayor to bring the Dent Act up for another vote and wanted more money for her trouble. She wanted even more money to look into Mario Falcone's early release, which Sofia was adamant happen soon. Yuri wanted Harley's input on every aspect of the cartel visit, including a demonstration of Pam's powers. Then there was the threat of retaliation from the Joker constantly looming.

It was too much.

After three days of this, especially from Pam and Dinah, Harley couldn't stand to stay in the penthouse any longer. She was desperate for some form of relief from the constant feeling of needing to scream in frustration. She wanted to talk about it— _vent_  about it—but she couldn't think of a single person she could talk to aside from Sofia, and if Sofia knew how overwhelmed Harley was, she would read into it.

So Harley made a risky choice and headed to the University District, picking up a bottle of wine from a bodega before she knocked on Vicki Vale's front door.

Vicki's eyes widened when she found Harley Quinn, dressed in skinny jeans and flip flops, standing on her doorstep with a bottle of Chardonnay in hand.

"You busy?" Harley asked mildly.

"Kind of," Vicki said slowly, her eyes darting up and down the street behind Harley. "Um... what's up?"

"You ever have one of those days where  _everyone_  is giving you a hard time?" Harley sighed melodramatically, shooting Vicki a crooked smile. "I could just use someone to talk to."

Vicki's eyes widened again, obviously unsure what to make of this request. She checked the street again, then nodded and moved back to let Harley into her building, locking the door behind them.

Harley followed Vicki up a narrow staircase, past two rundown apartments, one of which had cardboard covering a missing segment of its front door. Vicki's apartment was an old one-bedroom full of antique Bauhaus furniture and vintage finds and . There was a lopsided pink sofa flanked by a rocking chair against one wall, and a long bookshelf packed with vinyl records and old books, while the kitchen area was outfitted with pastel enamel appliances and ashtrays brimming with cigarette butts.

Vicki watched warily as Harley took a seat on the couch and cracked open the screw-top lid on the bottle of wine, then looked up at her expectantly, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. After a moment of hesitation, Vicki grabbed two chipped mugs off the side of the sink and awkwardly offered one to Harley as she lowered herself onto the sofa beside her.

"So," Vicki said cautiously, as Harley poured wine into both of their cups. "What did you want to talk about?"

"I don't care," Harley sighed, sinking back into the sofa cushions. She took a sip of her wine and looked around the apartment again, taking note of a poster on the wall for a folk singer's new album and a collection of mason jars on the window sill over the sink. "I like your place."

"It's okay," Vicki shrugged. "The wifi is good and the rent is cheap."

"That's important," Harley agreed, nodding sagely. "I'm living in the most grotesquely extravagant place right now." She rolled her eyes, thinking about the penthouse. "No one needs that much space."

"How terrible for you," Vicki said sarcastically, making Harley chuckle. "Why don't you go somewhere else?"

"It's complicated," Harley muttered unhappily, taking another sip of wine. "I'm just... stuck."

"You're  _stuck_?" Vicki raised one skeptical eyebrow. "You're one of the most powerful people in the city."

"With great power comes great responsibility," Harley sing-songed, wagging her finger at Vicki. "Everyone wants a piece of you."

"So that's why you want to talk? You're feeling sorry for yourself?" Vicki looked deeply unimpressed.

"I'm not feeling  _sorry_  for myself," Harley corrected, though she realized as she said it that actually, maybe she was. "I'm just..." Bored came to mind, but that sounded childish. Irritated wasn't much better. Overwhelmed made her sound weak. "Stressed out," she settled on at last, glancing at Vicki, who was staring at her like she'd grown a second head. " _What?"_

"I'm just having a hard time believing you came over here to complain about how stressed out you are," Vicki admitted, shifting uneasily when Harley scowled at her. "So what's got you so stressed out?"

"Ha, nice try," Harley smirked. "Use your imagination. What kind of people do I work with and what kind of situations are we currently facing? I'm sure you can figure it out."

"The drug war?" Vicki guessed, and Harley shrugged. "The Joker?" She tried, and Harley shrugged again, this time diving down for a mouthful of wine. It all ended up pointing back to him anyway.

"Where did you come up with that whole Mad Love story, anyway?" Harley asked, looking into the bottom of the chipped mug. She could feel Vicki eyeing her curiously, trying to work out what was really going on and how she could use it in her reporting.

"Young, celebrated psychologist turns to crime and starts painting her face like the Joker?" Vicki raised an eyebrow at Harley. "You can't make that stuff up."

"No, you can't," Harley agreed. "It's right up there with man dresses up like a bat to fight crime and man dresses up like a clown to terrorize the city." She glanced at Vicki again. "So?"

"I went to Arkham to talk to your old colleagues," Vicki admitted slowly. "They all said the same thing. That you'd been spending a lot of time interviewing the Joker and you'd started acting strange and seemed to have a...  _fascination_  with him. They were all convinced he'd changed you somehow. That you were this nice person who suddenly turned evil and killed her boss."

"Nah," Harley sneered, imagining Joan and Rosa and Blakely all fretting over her, trying to figure out what had happened. "I'm the same person I've always been. Those people never really knew me."

"So..." Vicki hesitated again, biting her lip. Harley lifted her eyebrows encouragingly, intrigued to hear what she had to say. "So why did you... give up your whole life when you met the Joker? If he didn't  _change_  you or whatever."

"I hated my life," Harley said, making a face before she drained the rest of her wine and thought back to those weeks after he'd escaped. "It all happened so fast. Just one thing after another, and I kept making choices that put me further and further away from my supposedly normal life. Eventually, I slipped up and got caught and couldn't go back." She shrugged.

"That kind of sounds like what I wrote," Vicki pointed out, offering Harley a smile. "Maybe you're just too close to it."

"No," Harley disagreed emphatically, shaking her head. "You wrote that he manipulated me into falling in love with him and  _whisked_  me away to this life of crime. You made me out to be the victim of some grand plot to like, turn me to the dark side." She fixed Vicki with a pointed look. "The truth is, there is no dark side. We all have darkness inside of us, some of us just give less of a shit about hiding it."

Vicki pursed her lips thoughtfully, her eyes darting down to her cup. "So you're saying... something about meeting the Joker made you realised you didn't want to hide anymore?"

"Maybe," Harley sighed. "His very existence may have provided me with the opportunity to escape a life I hated, but I made the choice to stop hiding. And  _not_  because I was madly in love or _whatever_."

"So... you two never had a..." Vicki cringed, knowing she was moving into uncharted territory. " _Relationship_?"

It sounded like she was trying to pronounce a word in a foreign language because all of Vicki's ideas about _relationships_  were so at odds with what she knew about the Joker and Harley.

Harley sighed again and flopped back against the couch cushions, holding her mug out to Vicki. "If we're going to talk about  _boys,_  I'm going to need some more wine."

"I don't know if talking about the Joker counts as gossiping about boys," Vicki chuckled, topping up Harley's cup and then her own.

"Sure it does," Harley nodded. "But I understand where you're coming from. The first time he kissed me, I was shocked by how...  _normal_  it was."

"He  _kissed_  you?" Vicki's eyebrows practically jumped into her hairline.

"Well, yeah," Harley shot her an amused look. "What did you think? There was some big love affair without kissing?"

"No, I just, I don't know," Vicki shrugged, looking baffled. "I guess a first kiss just sounds pretty pedestrian for you two."

"It happened in our friend's kitchen after we killed this mob boss and his wife," Harley smiled, her eyes drifting to the folk poster on the wall. "He kissed me, and it was just so...  _good_."

"Shit," Vicki's eyes were wide, and she was fighting a smile. "A first kiss after a double-assassination sounds a little more up your street."

Harley laughed. "Exactly."

"I guess I assumed it would be like, BDSM or blood-play or something because he's so, you know..." Vicki trailed off, looking conflicted, and finally settled on: "Creepy and sadistic."

"Not in the bedroom, he's not," Harley said slyly, and then threw a hand over her face, embarrassed when Vicki laughed at her.

"So?" Vicki leaned forward eagerly. "What was it like... being with him?"

Harley groaned, squeezing her eyes shut. "Are you asking me what the Joker is like in bed, Vicki?"

"Yeah," Vicki sighed, grimaced as she watched Harley gulp down another mouthful of wine. "I guess I am."

"Let's just say... I was never left wanting," Harley smiled at the ceiling. "And his silver tongue is good for more than inciting violence and anarchy." She rolled her eyes toward Vicki and laughed when she saw her cheeks had turned pink. "Jesus Vale, I didn't take you for such a  _prude_."

"I'm just kind of shocked you're telling me this," Vicki replied with an awkward little chuckle. "I can't believe you trust me."

"What are you gonna do, write an article about how the Joker is a generous lover and a great kisser?" Harley snorted. "I don't think so."

"That is so weird," Vicki shook her head. "I guess he must look as different as you do without the paint on."

Harley nodded silently, feeling moroseness sweep over her as she reminded herself of what she had to do.

Vicki was watching her curiously again, like she had a laundry list of questions but didn't know where to start.

"You're right, I guess," she said at length. "I was considering re-writing Mad Love. Making it something the Globe could publish with deep background and real sourcing. But the truth doesn't sound that exciting... or at least not something people would want to read."

"It's not Globe material," Harley agreed thoughtfully. "But I do have something for you that might be."

Vicki sat up a little straighter, her sixth sense for a good story kicking in. "Something I can independently verify?"

"You know how corrupt the GCPD is," Harley shot her an appraising look. "I can get some guys to talk to you about it. If you want."

"If I want?" Vicki replied, bemused and blinking. "Of course I want! But you own the cops, why would you want that exposed?"

"Everyone already knows, it's just a little color," Harley shrugged. "Besides, I like you. I want to help you if I can."

"You  _like_  me?" Vicki's eyes nearly popped out of her skull. "I don't know how to feel about that."

"I'm not  _evil,"_  Harley laughed, sending Vicki an affectionate smirk. " _But..._  if you ever fuck me over, I won't hesitate to crucify you against the side of the Gotham Globe building." She paused for effect. "And I mean that  _literally."_

Harley continued to smile cheerfully as Vicki tried to hide her horror, no doubt picturing what she was being threatened with.

* * *

After they finished the bottle of wine, Harley and Vicki moved onto a bottle of Campari Vicki brought back from a trip to Italy, and Harley had to call Nikki to pick her up in the wee hours of the morning.

She had the hangover she deserved when she woke up late the next afternoon, and could only hope she hadn't said anything stupid that might end up in the Globe. Harley was reasonably sure her threat of crucifixion was enough to stop Vicki from publishing anything that could do real damage.

Of course, 'damage' was relative. Harley made her way into the kitchen where she found Roxy and Dinah speaking quietly to one another, their heads close together. The whispering sent a little spike of dread through Harley's gut, making her paranoid Dinah was trying to convince Roxy she was a terrible person.

"Morning, ladies," she said warily, drawing their attention.

"Mornin' Harley," Roxy grinned weakly at her.

"The Joker retaliated," Dinah said grimly, holding up her phone screen to show Harley a Gotham Gazette article.

_JOURNALIST FOUND DEAD IN OFFICE: JOKER OR HARLEY QUINN SUSPECTED_

Harley frowned at the screen and then at Dinah, who looked exceedingly unimpressed, and took the phone from her to find out what had happened.

It was a strange retaliation, one Harley didn't fully understand. Greg Olson of the Globe was found dead in his office that morning, by all appearances from a heroin overdose. He'd also been found with his face painted like a clown.

"I don't get it," Harley said when she'd finished the piece.

"Maybe the Joker's sendin' a message," Roxy suggested, her brow furrowing. "Ya know, that it's not so obvious which one of ya burnt down that warehouse."

Harley made a face, thinking this was very tenuous and a message from the Joker was usually clearer than that.

"Or maybe he just wanted Greg Olson to stop writing nice things about him," Dinah shrugged.

"Both plausible," Harley sighed, rubbing her forehead and thinking it could easily be both and that this was just the first of many random deaths that would add up to something larger they would never see coming. It occurred to her then, belatedly, that Vicki was Greg Olsen's colleague at the Globe, and she sighed out an exasperated curse before running back to her bedroom, ignoring the girls calling after her.

Harley scooped up one of the burners charging by the side of her bed and found five texts from Vicki, all demanding to know what the hell had happened to Greg Olson and if Harley had something to do with it.

Harley really did like Vicki and more than that, Vicki was  _incredibly_  useful, especially now that she was at the Globe and had a real platform to spread whatever Harley needed her to. Harley definitely didn't want her to die at the hands of the Joker. Maybe this was his point by killing the journalist; to make her nervous, a power move to show her she didn't own the media, but that still felt convoluted compared to the Joker's usually crystal clear messaging.

Vicki replied to Harley's reassuring text almost immediately to say she had a police escort waiting at her door, but Harley found the likelihood that the Joker had already infiltrated the GCPD too plausible. She thought back to Judge Serillo, Commissioner Loeb, and Harvey Dent. She thought back to all the men and women who had been kidnapped, used as propaganda, and killed during both 'reigns of terror.' She thought of all the ways  _she_  might get to Vicki, and quickly typed out a list of instructions and things _not_  to do until Harley told her it was safe.

Then she called Bullock, who sounded bleary and incoherent like he was sleeping off a hangover, and demanded he get his ass over to Vicki's house to keep an eye on her. He was the only cop she could trust now—not the drones or the others she'd been paying off for months. Just Bullock.

There was more Harley needed do to protect the people who worked for her, like Janice Porter, and she could have easily spent the rest of the day putting safeguards in place to keep them all alive. But then another one of her phones started ringing— it was Yuri, informing her that the cartels would be arriving in a few days and he wanted her to give a presentation of Pam's powers to prove just how thorough their chokehold on the city was.

While Yuri was still blithering in her ear about 'presentations,' another phone started ringing—this time Sofia.

Harley ran her free hand over her face, groaning. They all wanted a piece of her, and a powerful urge to  _flee_  hit her square in the chest.

But then she remembered Vicki's critical comment about Harley feeling _sorry_  for herself, a notion that made her cringe.

She groaned again, conflicted, and answered Sofia's call. Of course, she wanted protection from the Joker too.

After all, the last time Sofia had seen him, she'd made him get down on his knees and beg.

* * *

Harley slowly worked her way through her list of tasks, first dealing with Yuri, then sending Pam and Dinah to Sofia's penthouse so Pam could drone her guards and make sure none of them were working for the Joker. It was what Sofia wanted, and Pam was all too eager to oblige despite Harley's reservations.

"Don't be ridiculous," Pam waved her off as she and Dinah got ready to leave. "The Joker might be able to tell if the ones working for the Lucky Hand are compromised, and maybe he can talk them into...  _doing_  things. But how would he get to the Odessas guarding Sofia and her family? He can't turn them against her."

"Uh huh," Harley said uncertainly, wondering if Pam was intentionally ignoring the fact that Harley's primary concern was for Pam, not the Joker's capacity for deception. "Just remember what I said about using your powers too much," she added warily. "I think you should cut back."

Pam completely ignored her, concentrating on tying on a pair of strappy sandals instead of acknowledging that Harley had said anything.

"Have you decided how you're going to respond to the journalist thing?" She asked as she stood up, making a face. "I still don't get it."

"I'm meeting Detective Bullock tonight," Harley said evasively, even though meeting Bullock had nothing to do with the Joker. She was getting better at brushing off these frequent requests for 'updates' with irrelevant bullshit. She just wasn't sure how long she could keep it up. "We'll see what he has to say."

Sasha took Pam and Dinah to Sofia's while Nikki took Harley to the Stacked Deck, leaving Roxy at home with Leo to make crepes and watch reruns of  _Made in the Diamond District_. Throughout the short ride to the Cauldron, Harley turned over the problem of Pam's increasing hunger for power and the effect it was having on her, and what she could do about it. The only thing she could come up with was treat the situation like an actual addiction. Stage an intervention. Speak to Sofia and Dinah and Roxy to get them on board. Maybe that would work...

The Stacked Deck was busy, but Bullock had managed to get his usual rickety table by the door. It was littered with shot glasses like he'd been drinking there for a while, his cheeks redder than usual, and he was clutching a beer like his life depended on it. When Harley dropped into the seat across from him, he bounced on his stool nervously, his baggy eyes darting around the bar, searching out perceived threats.

"How's Vicki?" Harley asked by way of greeting.

"Vicki? Oh, she's  _great_ ," he said sarcastically, the alcohol loosening his tongue. "Didn't like that Olsen guy very much but she's not exactly happy he's dead. Mostly she's scared she's gonna be next."

"Sounds about right," Harley nodded, and Bullock leaned forward on the front two legs of his stool, his eyes imploring.

"Listen, you and I have an arrangement—"

"You  _work_  for me," Harley corrected him blithely.

"—and I'm good with our set up, I really am," he continued, his face growing redder. "But you can't treat me like your errand boy. Not for  _my_  sake - I don't mind! But I'm supposed to be a  _cop,_ Harley, and if I'm runnin' off all the time to your bidding, it  _looks_  bad."

Harley sighed wearily, willing to grant him that he had a point.

"You're the only cop I trust, Harvey," she informed him, allowing her face to soften so he'd feel  _special._

Bullock scoffed, trying to hide a blush by glancing around the bar, looking bashful. "Barnes and Garcia were lookin' after Vale before I showed up and they work for you too. Why can't you trust them?"

"I'll take it under advisement," Harley said drily, fixing him with a pointed look. "Now, have you heard of the Escabedo Cartel?"

"Uh...  _Cartel?_ " Bullock parroted, his eyes widening as he wiped his mouth.

"How about that Penitente Cartel?" Harley grinned openly as his eyes widened again.

"Harley..." Bullock rocked forward, his elbows landing on the table, knocking over the shot glasses like dominos. "Are you talkin' about like Columbian neckties and Pablo Escobar kinda cartels?"

"Yep," Harley replied with a nod. "Where did you _think_  all the drugs come from?"

"Oh my fuckin' God," Bullock covered his face with one of his hands, rubbing his forehead like he was trying to massage away a headache. He peeked at her from between two fingers. "Why the hell are you getting involved in that, huh?"

"They're coming to Gotham in three days," Harley explained. "They want to be  _reassured_  that Sofia Falcone is running the city."

_"Jesus_ ," Bullock shook his head. "What are you gonna do, take em' out for a steak dinner?"

"They'll get off their plane, see what we have to show them, then get back on and fly off," Harley explained. "They aren't even coming into the city."

"So what the hell does this have to do with me?" Bullock demanded grumpily.

"I want you to be there to speak to our influence in the MCU," Harley shrugged, then laughed when Bullock's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "Ah, Bullock. You're so funny," she chuckled, her eyes drifting toward the bar.

The grin on her face promptly disappeared when she saw who was sitting there.

A man wearing a cheap gray suit was sitting at the bar with his back to Harley, his elbows planted and his head cocked to the side as he made small talk with the bartender. Harley knew the hunch of those lanky shoulders and that wavy dark-blonde hair all too well. What the  _hell_  was he doing here?

The Joker climbed off the barstool then, leaving a mostly empty bottle of beer behind as he loped toward the bathrooms, apparently unaware of Harley's presence across the room.

She immediately jumped to her feet, her hand going for her gun while Bullock hissed and blustered helplessly.

"Stay here," Harley snapped at him, before stomping across the bar after the Joker's back.

Maybe he was there by coincidence, but it seemed far fetched. Maybe he was trying to draw her into a trap, but she didn't care. The Joker's existence alone was giving Harley fires to put out left, right and center, and she was  _sick_  of it. He was a perfect target for her frustration, and Harley still had many, _many_  questions for him. She knew she was being impulsive, which was stupid, but she had done enough waiting and wondering when it came to the Joker. It was time for some action.

The door to the men's toilets was still swinging shut from where he'd passed through it. Harley caught it a second before it closed all the way, kicking the door so hard it crashed into the tiled bathroom wall with a _BANG_  that would have been heard by the patrons out in the bar.

The Joker spun around, his mouth curling into a smirk when he saw Harley with her jaw set and her eyes narrowed, heading right for him with her gun drawn. She rushed him before he had a chance to react, grabbing the lapel of his suit jacket and shoving the barrel of her gun to the underside of his jaw as she slammed him up against the side of a toilet stall, making the entire structure shake unsteadily.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" She demanded, adrenaline spiking in her blood. She was up in his face, her expression deadly serious in a practiced show of force that had terrified men much larger and more physically imposing than the Joker.

But the Joker wasn't most men.

"Oh, ho,  _ho_ ," he chuckled throatily, his eyes bright as he looked down at her. He prodded his scarred bottom lip with his tongue, not bothering to hide his amusement. "You've really grown some _balls_  haven't you."

Harley scowled and used her gun to force his head back.

"What are you planning?" She hissed.

"Me? Planning?" He said to the ceiling, feigning innocence.

Then he kicked the stiletto heel of her shoe, knocking Harley's foot out from under her. She nearly toppled to the ground, her grip on his jacket making him dip down with her. He grabbed her right wrist and yanked it up, spinning her around before she had a chance to regain her footing, and slammed her up against the toilet stall, pinning her arm and her gun over her head.

The stall rattled again, sounding like it might collapse as the Joker pushed Harley into it. She balled her left hand into a fist, intending to punch him, but he retrieved a slim blade from somewhere and had it against her throat before she could hit him.

Harley exhaled sharply through her nose, frustrated and knowing she was stuck. She uncurled her hand and wrapped it around the collar of his shirt instead, refusing to be supplicant even as the Joker cocked his head to the side and moved further into her personal space until there were only inches between them.

"I think we  _both_  know you're the one with a penchant for  _plans_ ," he said, his lip curling as he smirked down at her. "Always plotting _something_."

"You're so full of shit," Harley growled back at him, making him snort, amused by her assessment.

She realized she wasn't going to get anything out of him this way, and that it had been stupid and impulsive to think there was any chance she might have. Now he was too close to her, watching her curiously like he was trying to pull information out of her expression alone.

Harley's eyes darted around his face, trying to do the same, but she found nothing helpful there. She hadn't fought him yet, but she did now, taking him by surprise when she used a move Dinah taught her to make him release her arm as she batted away the knife, suspecting he wouldn't really slit her throat, at least not  _yet_. As soon as she was free, Harley shrugged him off and stomped out of the bathroom, her heart pounding in her throat as she tried to focus. She needed to get  _out_  of there.

"I'll call you," she snapped at Bullock, who watched her pass, his face twisting with confusion.

Outside the summer air was humid but just fresh enough that Harley could take a deep breath on her way to the car parked out front. As she reached for the door handle, she heard the bar's front door swing open and shut behind her as the Joker followed her out into the street.

"That's an awful big car for such a  _small_  person," he observed drolly.

Harley closed her eyes, praying for strength, and opened the car door with every intention of ignoring him and leaving.

"We probably should _,_ uh _... catch up,"_ the Joker continued thoughtfully, making Harley spin around to face him, her mouth puckering into a grim line.

She narrowed her eyes, not trusting that he wanted to  _talk_  for any reason other than to fuck with her. The only reason he would want to  _talk_  would be to plant ideas in her head to mislead her or try to manipulate her, or who knew what else. But Harley was almost, if not  _just as_  good at playing his mind games, and she needed information too.

Harley climbed into the Range Rover, leaving the door open for him to join her. She slipped across the backseat, telling Nikki to get a drink as the Joker slid onto the seat beside her and pulled the door shut. Once Nikki was out of the car, Harley turned to face him, her expression cold and closed off, and maybe a little  _pinched_. Her jaw was starting to hurt from clenching it, but when he cocked his head to the side and squinted at her, she only clenched it harder.

"So," she snapped after a beat. " _Talk."_

"Oh, I go first, huh?" He drawled, lifting his chin to look down his nose at her, the light of the streetlamp outside illuminating his face so she could see him.

He looked  _really_  good.

"You're the one who wanted to talk," Harley said icily. "You go first."

"Hmm," the Joker licked his lips thoughtfully and looked out the window for a prolonged moment before turning back to her. "Before you got Penguin locked up he hired Victor Zsasz to take care of you. And  _you_  know Victor... he doesn't stop until he gets a taste..."

"I am aware," Harley replied haughtily. "I can take care of Victor Zsasz."

"Uh... are you  _sure_ ," the Joker raised one patronizing eyebrow. "Last time it didn't go so well."

"Last time I wasn't..." Harley closed her mouth, stopping herself from saying too much or proving herself to be too cocky. Cocky was a great way to get killed. "Why are you working for the Lucky Hand?" She asked instead, her eyes shooting sideways to watch him react, but he only shrugged evasively.

"This doesn't feel like a very  _fair_  uh... back and forth," he observed lazily.

"What's your long game?" Harley pushed, not caring about fairness, only answers.

"Oh, the  _long_ game," he said, a slow smirk spreading across his lips. "Would you believe me if I said I'm... playin' it by ear?"

"No," Harley shot back immediately.

"Ah, well. I guess that's your problem," the Joker shrugged again, his eyes rolling toward the window and then back to Harley. _"My_  turn," he growled, narrowing his eyes.

Harley's mouth tightened again, preparing herself.

"You used to be so concerned with being...  _independent_ ," he mused, his eyes drifting over her. "But  _now_  you're proppin' up Sofia Falcone. Being her little  _errand_  girl. I just don't...  _get it_."

Harley bristled but tried to hide it, mostly because he was entirely correct about what she used to want and where she was now, and she didn't want him to know it. Of course, he picked up on it, because it should have been obvious to anyone who knew anything about her. And how damned frustrating that  _he_  seemed to be the  _only_  one who knew or understood her.

"I like the suits she makes me," Harley said snidely, a non-answer.

"That is a  _great_  suit," the Joker agreed, running his tongue over the scar splitting his bottom lip as his eyes rolled over her. "Still... you're so...  _uptight_. Even more than good old  _Dr Quinzel_  with her bad shoes and her gray  _slacks_... a person might even say you're kinda...  _clenched._ "

Harley's eyes narrowed to slits as he used her words from long ago against her— _clenched_ —but she still couldn't deny that he was right. He was manipulating her, of course, trying to coerce her into acting in a way that would help him. But that didn't make him any less right.

"Like you could use some..." his eyes drifted over her again, a complacent smirk blooming on his mouth. " _Relief._ "

Harley's pulse leaped when she realized what he was suggesting, her body irritatingly eager to accept the offer no matter how strongly the sensible voice in her head reprimanded her for wanting it. She should not  _want_  him, especially not when he wasn't even trying to hide the fact that he was openly manipulating her. This wasn't an irresponsible moment of impulsive lust—this was a way to control her by using what she wanted against her.

But did it matter? Wasn't Harley just as capable of taking what she wanted without leaving the Joker anything to use against her? She already knew she didn't want to kill him, but she'd have to do it anyway when the time came. This brief moment of  _relief_  he was offering wasn't going to change that. Perhaps his narcissism led him to believe he could turn her into a supplicant who only needed regular sex to stay in line, but he was wrong about that.

Decision made, Harley threw her leg over his thighs, one of her shoes clattering to the floor as she settled in to straddle his lap. Her hands flew up to pull fistfuls of his hair while he grabbed her ass and tugged her closer, their mouths colliding enthusiastically. They groped and pawed at each other, their tounges sliding together sloppily, and for a little while it was satisfying to release the coil of tension lingering between them. But even though it felt good, Harley could tell the Joker was performing for her. Giving her what he thought she wanted because this was supposed to be about pleasing and controlling her.

It was painfully obvious because what Harley liked most was when he stopped performing and just  _gave in_  to whatever this thing was between them, and even though she could feel him getting hard between her legs, Harley could also feel him  _resisting_  her in their mutual struggle for power. He was holding her at arm's length, where he thought he would be able to control her, rather than letting himself get lost in her like he used to when she made him feel like a  _caveman._

The Joker hooked his hands behind Harley's knees and flipped her onto her back, so she was sprawled across the backseat, her head bouncing against the leather. He flicked apart the button and zip of her trousers and helped her kick them off, then bowed down over her, his mouth connecting with her throat as his hand slipped between her legs.

Harley did not feel lost in the moment as he touched her. She was hyper-aware of the slow roll of his tongue against her pulse, and his thumb rubbing a lazy figure-eight over her clit, but the fact that it was all so  _intentional,_  all just a power move to bend her to his will, completely  _ruined_  it.

Not just ruining the moment, but  _wasting_  an opportunity. Harley had been promised relief, and she still wanted it.

"Get off me," she snapped, her voice cold, and the Joker retreated from her almost instantly, his eyes narrowing.

Harley followed him up, grabbing a handful of his suit jacket to pull herself into his lap so she was sitting astride him again, barefoot and naked from the waist down as she eyed him speculatively. There was a moment where they simply looked at each other, and Harley saw uncertainty creep into his expression. She kept her eyes on his face as she unbuckled his belt and unfastened his pants, and when she took him firmly in hand, she leaned forward to press her lips against his ear.

"You know... even when I thought your bloated corpse was rotting in a shallow grave somewhere... I  _still_  wanted you," she hissed, squeezing his cock hard enough to make him exhale roughly. "Or at least  _one_  part of you," she added spitefully.

Then she pulled back to glare at him as she rose up on her knees and positioned herself above him. She held her breath as she sank down onto him, determined not to make a sound. She saw his jaw tense as his hands inched up on her legs, but she promptly knocked them away, refusing to let him be anything more than a tool to give her a brief moment of relief from her shitshow of a life.

Harley closed her eyes and did her best to ignore him, bracing one hand on the back of the seat as she moved above him. When he tried to squeeze a hand between them to help her along she batted it away, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of making her come. But it was still him, and her body seemed to realize that. He still felt  _good_  inside her, hitting her right where she wanted him, and he smelled the same, and each rough breath or low growl he released, made her arousal twist tighter and tighter—because it was  _him_.

But as her orgasm began to build, Harley couldn't  _not_  look at him, and when she lifted her eyes to his, she was pleased to see the Joker's eyelids drooping as his tongue snaked out to lick his bottom lip. She grabbed his hands on an impulse, forcing them onto her waist and squeezing.

_"Harder,"_  she demanded breathlessly, watching his jaw tense as his hands tightened on her, and he obediently pulled her down on him harder, his hips snapping up into hers more urgently. Harley bit down on her lip to stop herself from saying anything further, the impulse to pant the letter that stood for his name almost overwhelming. She chanted it in her head instead, twisting her hands into his suit jacket as their movements became more erratic.

Then pleasure was rolling through her stomach and down her limbs, making Harley's head fall back as she hummed weakly, though she would have liked to laugh or cry. She kept moving through it, her lips parting wordlessly, and when she heard him breathe " _ah, shit,"_  she opened her eyes to see him frowning at her like he was confused. When he came, he tried to grab her and pull her close, but Harley pushed him back against the seat, scowling at him as her hips slowed to a stop.

Then they sat there, both of them breathing hard, and Harley ran her hand over her hair, feeling...  _reinvigorated_  rather than relieved, and even though he was still inside her, and the feeling of being filled by him was uniquely heady in its own way, she rolled to the side, collapsing on the seat beside him. She sighed contently before reaching down to pull her clothes back on, and once she was covered, she turned to look at the Joker. He was staring at her, his pants still undone, his eyes narrowed, a hint of alarm on his face.

"You can go now," Harley said breezily, pulling her phone out of her blazer and calling Nikki.

The Joker squinted at her, looking a little pissed off, but then he turned his attention down to his pants and quickly fastened himself away. Then he kicked open the door and disappeared out into the street without a backward glance.

Harley grinned as Nikki answered the phone. "C'mon, let's go," she said.

"You in good mood, boss?" Nikki asked as they drove back to the penthouse.

"I think I just  _won_ ," Harley mused happily.

"You always win, boss," Nikki pointed out loyally, and Harley had to laugh because while this was most certainly not true, she hoped it would be  _this_  time.

Maybe the Joker would just go away again. Go back to where ever he'd gone before. Somewhere sunny probably if his hair turning blonde was anything to go by. She giggled to herself, feeling more light-hearted than she had in weeks. Sex—not  _great_  sex, but sex nonetheless—and a small personal victory over the Joker. What wasn't there to be happy about?

When they got back to the penthouse, the other Range Rover was still gone, which meant Pam and Dinah were still at Sofia's. Harley had a vision of Pam creating a literal army of drones for Sofia, a thought that made her good mood deplete somewhat because she could  _easily_  see it happening unless she stepped in to stop it.

She pushed open the front door and stopped short at what she was greeted with on the other side. Something small and fleshy and covered in blood. It took Harley a few seconds of staring at the little mound on the floor before she realized it was a human breast.

"Nikki," she said, her voice coming out shaky as she stepped into the foyer. She was going to give Nikki another order when she spotted a bloody, rope-like pulp in the doorway leading from the front hall into the kitchen and living room.

Harley had never seen intestines before, but she knew instinctively that was what she was looking at. She paled when she realized the intestines had been laid out in a path through the door into the kitchen, a path she reluctantly followed. Her blood grew to a steady roar in her ears when she was next confronted with what looked like organs on the kitchen floor, none of which she could identify, but they were arranged in a path through the living room, leading to the patio door; leading Harley to their owner.

Leo was on the kitchen floor, unconscious or dead and bleeding heavily from the side of his head, but Harley couldn't give a shit about him. She followed the organs out onto the patio, where they continued toward the pool. Her whole body was trembling, already knowing what she was going to find, but when she saw it, that didn't make it any less horrific.

Casually arranged on one of the sun lounges by the pool was Roxy, or at least what remained of her. She had been gutted, her face and body mutilated, her blonde hair matted with blood. Parts of her were scattered around her. Floating in the pool,  _taunting_  Harley.

Harley stared down at Roxy, horror sweeping through her as she swayed back on her heels. Then nausea rose up in her throat, the carnage more than what she was capable of seeing, and she slapped a hand over her mouth to stop herself from being sick.

"Boss! Mini Ling is alive!" Nikki called from inside the penthouse, and Harley turned to see he'd bundled the smaller man up in his arms.

Feeling helpless, she looked back down at Roxy, knowing there was nothing she could do, knowing that if Victor Zsasz knew where they were, it would only be a matter of time before other people knew where they were too. She could feel tears burning behind her eyes as the initial shock started to wear off, and genuine grief swept in, but more than that, Harley felt anger.

It was white-hot, blistering, and it started to consume her.

* * *

**A/N: :(**

**Next: Harley goes after Zsasz.**

**Please comment if you can bring yourself to.**


	26. Chapter 26

The Harlequin

26.

* * *

When Dinah was living at the shelter, expecting hot water for a shower would have been laughable, but Sofia Falcone's penthouse had no shortage of hot water. As Dinah stood beneath the endless torrent of what she used to classify as _luxury_ , she reflected on how different things were for her now, and how all of it came down to one woman. Harley Quinn.

Dinah was at once drawn to Harley and repelled by her. It was a confusing dichotomy of mixed emotions, where Diah found herself resenting Harley, but also feeling like she needed to _protect_  Harley, and after the events of the night that just passed, Dinah was feeling this conflict more strongly than ever before.

Harley called sometime after midnight, telling them not to leave Sofia's, and when she showed up a few hours later, she looked...  _haunted_ , was the only word Dinah could think of that fit. She told them that Roxy had been murdered, but they couldn't get her body because their place was compromised. As she was prone to doing, Harley gave up minimal information and expected them to take it at face value, not ask any questions. All she would say was that a man named Victor Zsasz had killed Roxy.

And then Sofia filled them in on what Victor Zsasz did to women.

And then Harley's reluctance to talk about it made a lot more sense.

Dinah sighed, her eyes stinging. She wasn't a sentimental person, and she had grown all-too-used to loss and hardship in her seventeen years. But Roxy had been her friend, and there would be no closure over her death. She was just  _gone._

Pam had sobbed like a mother who'd lost her child while Sofia attempted to comfort her, stroking her back and offering her Xanax. Meanwhile, Harley disappeared in and out of the living room, her phone in her hand at all times as she made and took calls, trying to track down Zsasz. As if that would help anything. Dinah had never seen Harley's face so cold and closed off before, and it scared her. It was like the stillness before a storm. Placid only on the surface as something dark and horrible brewed beneath.

Around dawn, Sofia convinced Pam to get some sleep in one of her guestrooms and encouraged Dinah to do the same. Knowing she wouldn't be able to sleep, Dinah opted for a shower, and that was where she remained an hour later, with no end to the hot water in sight.

That brought her back to Harley, who she could almost sense on the other side of the penthouse, that sheen of calm rapidly thinning as the storm started to take hold.

Harley could be completely normal sometimes, joking around while they watched TV or hung out by the pool. She was funny, which was distracting, and also incredibly beautiful, which was disarming. Dinah was slightly ashamed to admit the first day she met Harley her knees had gone a little weak when Harley leaned on her maid cart, smirking slyly and batting her big blue eyes, tempting Dinah to do bad things. But beauty was only skin deep, and beneath Harley's soft, blonde exterior lurked something dark and powerful and  _frightening_.

In her own way, Harley could be a nice person, thoughtful and aware of the people around her, specifically the ones she liked. She was fiercely loyal and protective of her friends, something Dinah had seen a lot of recently as Harley worried over Pam's ever-increasing appetite for power. She had more confidence in herself than anyone Dinah had ever met, like she believed she was capable of doing  _literally_  anything she put her mind to. It was empowering, and it made you believe in her, and also in yourself.

Harley was also secretive and manipulative and vicious. Killing people didn't bother her in the slightest. She took life as and when it suited her needs, and she found it easy to hurt people to get what she wanted. Sometimes she even seemed to enjoy it. It was this behavior that Dinah found impossible to reconcile with the person she would call her 'friend,' even if Harley framed her actions as necessary to protect them all. How could Dinah have a friend who valued life so little? Who saw human beings fall into two categories—those who mattered to her, and those who were only a means to an end. The first category was tiny, and Dinah was lucky enough to find herself in it. The second encapsulated everyone else.

The problem was, Harley was good at making you feel special _,_ and it was tough to ignore or brush off. She sucked you in.

Roxy had explained it perfectly once.

"There was just somethin' about her. She was down on her luck, but when I talked to her I didn't feel sorry for her cause... why would I? She totally believed in herself, and she liked  _me._  So, I just felt like I was lucky and I wanted to do whatever I could for her, ya know?"

Dinah knew.

Early on in their friendship, Harley hadn't shown this darker side of herself. It had slowly eased its way out, infiltrating their little group, changing the dynamic just like Pam's hunger for power and flexible morals had. At first, Pam kept Harley in check. Now she enabled Harley to act on her worst impulses. It was like Harley had lifted a veil for Pam, which Dinah suspected Pam saw as some form of liberation from the status quo. Dinah had another word for it: corruption. Harley has corrupted Pam, enabling  _her_  worst instincts which, though less sadistic, were selfish and anti-social at best.

Dinah turned the hot water off, feeling like she needed to do something productive to help her work through her feelings instead of just standing naked and alone with her thoughts. She toweled off and pulled on a black hoodie, skinny jeans, and her scuffed Chuck Taylors, and headed back down to the penthouse's ground floor, wary of what she would find there.

Dinah's instincts were correct as they so often were. Harley stood alone in Sofia's stately living room, leaning against the arm of an elegant Italian leather sofa as she stared at the wall. Her eyes looked hollow, and her hair was wild, covering one eye and sticking up in the back, making her look a little crazy. She'd been wearing the same black suit for days, the white shirt sweat-stained and creased with a few buttons missing, the jacket hanging off her shoulders all wrong. How she was still wearing five-inch heels, Dinah had no idea.

Dinah approached her slowly, examining the wall briefly to see what she was staring at but finding nothing there. When she looked back at Harley's face, she realized she wasn't looking at anything, but that she was deep in thought, turning a problem over in her head.  _Obsessing._  That sense that there was something dark simmering right beneath the surface hit Dinah again. Like any second now, Harley was going to split in half, and a tornado was going to spin out of her and consume all of them.

"Harley?" She asked gently, hoping to nudge her out of the trance she was in. "Are you alright?"

"No," Harley replied crisply, her blue eyes snapping up to meet Dinah's. "He's not going to get away with this."

"You mean Zsasz?" Dinah pursed her lips, sensing she needed to tread lightly. "What are you thinking about doing?"

"You're doing something?" Sofia appeared in the hallway behind Dinah, wearing a silk robe with her dark hair hanging sleek over her shoulder. She looked like she'd been getting ready for bed even though it was nearly ten in the morning, and her children had already gone to school. She crossed the living room to a small table and fished a pair of keys out of a frosted bowl, then tossed them to Harley. "Take Vito's Ferrari. It's unregistered."

As soon as Harley's fist closed around the keys, she pushed away from the sofa, not speaking a word to either of them as she headed for the private elevator.

"Go with her," Sofia instructed Dinah coldly. "She's not thinking straight. Don't let her get hurt."

Dinah did as instructed, following Harley across the living room and foyer, and into the elevator, its doors closing with a soft  _'ding!'_

"Where are we going?" Dinah asked as they began their descent.

Harley was staring at the elevator doors like she was trying to see through them. Her lips twitched, and for a second, Dinah thought she might respond, but then she inhaled shortly through her nose and closed her eyes, remaining silent until the elevator reached the ground floor. This might have been how she dealt with grief, Dinah thought, but it felt more like she was struggling to control herself.

"Fine," Dinah muttered, following Harley across the parking garage to a black Ferrari that looked more like a spaceship than a car. She climbed into the passenger seat, her frustration over Harley's steely silence starting to wear on her patience as she pulled on her seatbelt and waited.

Finally, the driver's door flew open, and Harley slipped behind the wheel, her face freshly painted with her Harlequin warpaint. She threw the car into gear and slammed her foot down on the gas.

"Isn't it kind of risky to go out like that in the day?" Dinah asked warily, but Harley only shot her a withering look, one that was ten times more threatening with her eyes blackened and her skin chalky-white. And when Dinah opened her mouth to protest again, Harley yanked the wheel hard to the left and revved the Ferrari's engine, slinging them out into Midtown morning traffic, a not-so-subtle signal that she wasn't in the mood to have a discussion.

They crossed the Midtown Bridge and pulled onto the freeway in silence, Dinah's sense of unease growing as the minutes ticked past. She could almost feel Harley's anger morphing and mutating, filling Dinah with trepidation. She felt like Sofia had put her in charge of an unstable nuclear reactor, and it was her job to keep it from melting down.

For a full hour they didn't talk, and Dinah was left to her thoughts as they pulled off the freeway and sped through South Channel, right to the outskirts of Gotham proper. Unlike the tree-lined western edge of the city that compromised the Palisades, the southern side was a desolate wasteland of dumps and abandoned shipping yards. When they pulled up to a sprawling dump full of totaled cars, Dinah shot Harley a curious look, wondering if she expected to find Zsasz there. She wasn't ready to think about the specifics of what Harley would do to him if they did.

The Ferrari screeched to a stop as Harley stomped down on the brake and kicked open her door, leaving the keys in the ignition and the car running. Dinah remained where she was, listening to Harley's heels crunch through the dirt and loose gravel. Her gaze slipped over to the keys still in the ignition, and she considered what it would take to get behind the wheel and leave. The keys were right there, just waiting for her...

" _Sammy!"_  Harley bellowed, sounding half-delirious. "Where the fuck are you!"

Dinah closed her eyes and took off her seatbelt, praying for patience and strength as she climbed out of the car.

Among the piles of wrecked cars and garbage, there was a little wooden shack that Sammy the Slug operated out of. Harley sent Dinah there to buy a car with clean plates once, just before their first robbery together. That seemed like a lifetime ago now, even though it had only been three or four months.

Sammy poked his head out from his shack, squinting in the sunshine before judging the situation safe enough to proceed. He was bald and mostly toothless with blisters covering his sunburnt scalp, and he wore overalls held up by one strap without a shirt underneath. As Harley approached, he eyed her carefully, taking a long drag off his cigarette.

"What can I do for you, Harley— _AGHH_!"

Harley rushed him, drawing her gun and pistol-whipping Sammy hard across the face before he had a chance to cover himself. Sammy fell sideways into the dirt, a cloud of dust blowing up around him as he clutched his face and moaned.

_"Where is he!"_  Harley snarled, kicking Sammy in the face. Her stiletto caught his cheek, making him cry out as he fell back into the dirt.

Dinah darted forward, making sure she was close enough to intervene if she needed too.

"Where is Zsasz!" Harley snapped, her voice cracking as she leveled her gun at Sammy's head.

"I ain't seen him in weeks!" Sammy wailed, flailing on his back like a turtle in the sun. "I swear, Harley! I ain't seen him!"

"Weeks!" Harley hissed. Her arm swung out to the side, and she shot Sammy in the knee without blinking, making him scream. "Where the fuck is he!"

"I donnow! I donnow!" Sammy floundered helplessly, clutching his leg.

Harley stopped her attack abruptly, reholstering her gun and looking around, reconsidering her technique. Then she lunged for a workbench running along the side of the shack, grabbing a red plastic canister of gasoline.

Sammy managed to pull himself up to his elbows in time to receive a mouthful of gasoline when Harley dumped the contents of the canister over his head. He gurgled and wailed, but Harley ignored him, her voice growing shrill and desperate as she relentlessly demanded answers. Dinah watched from a few yards away, feeling sick and powerless, and envisioning scenarios where she might step in to stop Harley.

The last of the gasoline drizzled out of the canister's nozzle, a fat drop landing on Sammy's sunburnt head, and Harley threw the empty reciprocal in his face. Her shoulders shook as she gave Sammy a few seconds to recover, then she dropped down into a sumo squat in front of him, leaning in close as she produced a disposable lighter. She held it up for Sammy to see and dragged her thumb down the wheel, a flame jumping to life in her hand.

"Where is he?" She snarled over Sammy's pleading that she spare him.

"He was stayin' with some junkies in the Narrows!" Sammy wailed. "That's all I know!"

"Some  _junkies_  in the Narrows?" Harley snapped incredulously. "There are  _thousands_  of junkies in the Narrows!"

"They were still on the Chinese shit!" Sammy tried again, attempting to scoot backward in the dirt away from her. "That's all I know, I swear — I _swear!"_

Harley snarled in frustration and spun around, a clod of dirt flying up behind her as she stormed back to the Ferrari and flung herself behind the wheel. Dinah watched Sammy press his hand to his chest and sob before she turned away and reluctantly hurried to join Harley in the car.

* * *

The sun was at the highest point in the sky, radiating an ungodly heat down on Gotham that made it almost unbearable to be outside. The Joker turned his face up to it, enjoying the sensation of greasepaint melting into every crack and crevice of his face. He scrunched up his nose and grimaced, encouraging the effect, then opened his eyes to stare right into the sun. Two black orbs appeared in his field of vision, blinding him and burning the backs of his eyes. He held it for as long as he could, listening to the Lucky Hand's guards mutter to each other as they looked around Sammy the Slug's dump.

After the previous night's seduction attempt gone wrong, the Joker decided he needed to try a different tack with Harley. He still had a job to do, and seducing her had seemed an enjoyable and effective way to keep her in line after what happened at Grin and Bare It.  _However_ , he had forgotten just how stubborn she was, and he had _really_  forgotten how much she got under his skin when she wanted to. All it took was a little whispering in his ear, and he'd folded like a house of cards, completely losing the upper hand to her, completely losing  _himself_  to her.

But getting lost and  _giving_   _in_  was part of why the sex was always so fucking great. Why would the Joker resist  _that_?

It was also a painful reminder that Gotham was Harley's city now. She controlled the mob, the muscle, the money men, the cops, the politicians, the media, the drug dealers, the arms dealers, and everyone in between. Meanwhile, the Joker had become a lackey for heroin dealers who were demanding he bring them Poison Ivy's head. It wasn't like he had anything  _else_  going on, not after being away from Gotham so long, and Bruno dead, and Harley running the city. Regardless of what she thought he was up to, he hadn't lied when he told her he was playing things by ear, waiting for an opportunity to arise, or for  _inspiration_ to strike. But the  _waiting_  game was getting a little bit...  _stale._

It was time to speed things up, and there was only one thing for it. Harley needed to be  _dealt_ with.

Seduction wouldn't work. Outmaneuvering her wouldn't work. That meant it was time to do things the old-fashioned way.

After a little light torture, the Joker got an address out of one of Poison Ivy's weeds, but instead of finding Harley's girl gang holed up there, he'd discovered a trail of organs and a butchered blonde. Victor's good work, no doubt, which meant he would be hiding out somewhere with a new scratch on his neck while an emotionally compromised and vulnerable Harley fruitlessly attempted to hunt him down. But when Victor decided to hide, there was no finding him, not unless he  _wanted_  to be found. It was one of the few skills Victor possessed that made up for him being a complete fucking moron.

A weird, warbling sob drew the Joker's attention then, and he swung around to face the shitty little shack in the center of the dump. After a few rapid blinks to clear his vision, he spotted a booted foot sticking out of the side of the shack, and a smirk slid onto his lips when another sob echoed across the dump.

He took his time circling the shack, ignoring the bewildered looks the Hand's boys sent one another as he skipped the last few feet. Sammy was propped up against the side of his shack, swigging a bottle of Jim Beam and holding an oil-stained rag to his face. He had his left leg out to the side, the knee of his overalls stained dark with blood. From what the Joker could see of his face, he'd been beaten with something blunt and heavy—typical Harley—and he also appeared to be...  _glistening_.

"You're not lookin' so good, Sammy," the Joker purred, dropping down into a squat. He let his tongue scrape over the scar tissue inside his cheek as he drank in the indecent mess Harley had made of this weathered criminal. "You get a visit from Harley Quinn?"

"She's gone fuckin' crazy," Sammy said weakly, his voice shaking. Then he realized who he was talking to and demurred, his eyes darting out to the side.

"You shouldn't go around callin' people  _crazy,"_  the Joker advised sagely. His curiosity got the better of him, and he ran his thumb over Sammy's sunburnt scalp, ignoring the twitch that ran through the other man's body when he touched him. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together experimentally, sniffing them.  _Oh._  "You take a bath in gasoline today, Sammy?"

"I'm serious, Joker, she's fuckin' lost it. You shouldda seen her," Sammy blustered. "She shot me! And she threatened to set me on fire!"

The Joker ducked his head down to hide a private smile as a sliver of affection cut right through the objective  _fact_  that Harley was a roadblock that needed to be dealt with. Affection for Harley splintered that  _fact_  right in half, endearing her to him, and the smile promptly fell off the Joker's face.

She wasn't even there, and she was winning.

Worse still, he didn't even  _care_.

Frowning, he lifted one gloved hand and pushed the oil-stained rag away from Sammy's face, revealing a deep, jagged cut on his cheek. Not from a knife or a blade, something duller that would have required more effort to pierce the skin. A high heeled shoe maybe.

"Alright, Sammy," the Joker said conversationally, prodding the open wound on the other man's face. Sammy winced hard but wasn't stupid enough to pull away. "Why don't you tell me everything you told her... huh?"

Sammy nodded quickly.

* * *

It took hours to find the junkies Zsasz had been staying with. Harley seemed to have a mental list of doors to kick down and people to threaten to find them, and with each door and each threat, she spun further and further out of control. There was a trail of bodies behind them, and though Dinah knew she wouldn't have been able to stop Harley from killing them, she still felt sick for not trying harder.

They were speeding through the Narrows, Harley's black eyes flicking over building numbers and street names when she spotted the one they were looking for. She threw the wheel hard to the left, cutting across oncoming traffic and driving up onto the curb. Instead of slamming hitting the brakes, she let the Ferrari crash into a fire hydrant, making the airbag in front of Dinah to deploy. It smacked her in the face hard enough to make her vision blur as water from the hydrant pounded down on the hood of the car.

Before Dinah could recover, Harley was already out of the car and flying up the front steps of the building they were told they might be able to find Zsasz in. Dinah sucked in a few deep breaths through her nose to move past the shock of the accident, marveling that Harley could shake it off so quickly.

There were more people than usual out on the street that day due to the oppressive heat. People were sitting on lawn chairs and blankets outside of the public housing building across the street. Shoeless kids were sitting on top of cars and leaning out of fire escapes high above. Rail thin prostitutes were posing on the corner while dealers lurked in the alleyways. There were so many people, and all of them were watching as Dinah backed away from the Ferrari and chased after Harley.

She found her in an apartment on the second floor, with four addicts cowering on their knees in front of her. Dinah arrived just in time for Harley to bark out a derisive laugh and shoot the first addict in the head before moving onto the next.

"Where is he!" She growled. The screechy, hysterical quality her voice had taken on when she'd been threatening Sammy had left her some time ago. Now there was something almost guttural in how she snapped at the junkies.

When the second junkie couldn't offer her any information, Harley shot him too and moved on to the third. Dinah's heart sank, her self-loathing becoming so palatable she could have named a flavor after it.

"Harley," Dinah said as Harley prepared to shoot the third junkie. "They don't know anything."

"He was here!" Harley snarled, whirling around to glare at Dinah. Her pupils were huge, only a thin ring of blue remaining, and her body was visibly trembling.

"It's okay," Dinah tried futilely, edging closer. "It doesn't matter if we don't find him. Let's just go home."

"Home!" Harley laughed bitterly. "Home? Where is  _home,_  Dinah?  _Where!"_

"Home to Sofia's," Dinah took a few steps closer, holding her hands up to show she wasn't a threat. "We're out in the open here. It isn't safe."

"Safe!" Harley snapped, then shot the third junkie in the head without looking at him.

Dinah's eyes widened, but she stopped herself from reacting as the third body fell to the floor. "Harley..." she said more firmly, her hands curling into fists.

But Harley was already growling at the last junkie. This one was a girl, young and skeletal, with scabs covering the insides of her arms. Harley squatted down in front of her and grabbed the front of her stained shirt, yanking her forward so she could hiss in the girl's ear. The girl replied, so softly Dinah couldn't hear it, but she saw Harley's shoulders tense as she listened. Then she nodded and released the girl, rising back up to her feet before stomping out of the room.

Dinah stared down at the bodies they'd left behind, her stomach twisting horribly. But she forced herself to look away and follow Harley again.

She didn't know what else she could do.

* * *

Bodies, bodies, bodies.

Men, women, junkies, dealers,  _witnesses_.

Harley had left a trail of them across the Narrows in her hunt for Victor. The dead couldn't speak, but the ice-cold efficiency of it all  _screamed_  Harley Quinn.

The Joker sat in the passenger seat of one of the Lucky Hand's overly air-conditioned SUVs, staring out the window at a fire hydrant belching water into the sky like a geyser. It was broad daylight, and there were too many people around for him to get out and inspect the scene himself, so two of the Hand's guards were checking it out while he idled in the car, watching the impoverished children of the Narrows play in the water.

He was reflecting on the past, something he rarely did unless it was relevant to the present moment like it was now.

There had only been one occasion when he'd genuinely considered killing Harley. The night they kidnapped Barbie Gordon and escaped through the sewers. She'd been radiating guilt, and he'd realized she was planning on betraying him, and with so many plates spinning, the obvious choice was to kill her so she wouldn't get in the way.

It was the obvious choice, but the Joker hadn't felt  _motivated_  to do it.

He took her to a safe house in Burnley Arms, one where it would be easy to cover up her death rather than deal with the disposal of her body. He got her in the bedroom, then made the mistake of looking her in the eye to see if he could figure out what she was planning. He'd kissed her because he wanted to, and the Joker always did what he wanted, and in the back of his mind, he'd wondered what killing her while he kissed her would be like. Nice for both of them, maybe. Personal.

But just kissing her was enough to suck the self-preservation right out of him. Just kissing her did all kinds of things to him. It annoyed him, and it turned him on, and it made him question himself in ways he didn't understand, and then he realized the fact that she was planning on fucking him over only made him want her more, although how to actually  _have_ her was still unclear to him. She was strong, and she was ruthless, and she always  _felt_  so damn  _good_ , and she was probably going to get him killed.

He remembered being torn over what he wanted to do —a genuine first for the Joker— and confessing to her that she made him feel like a caveman as he debated killing her.

Then she'd climbed on top of him, touching him in ways that made him want to purr like a fucking kitten, and she'd whispered in his ear...

That was when he came up with the ill-fated honeymoon suite plan to keep her at arm's length where she couldn't fuck him over, at least not until things calmed down and there weren't so many plates spinning.

_That_  hadn't worked out. Ex-Israeli intelligence officers were no match for Harley Quinn.

The Joker rubbed his hands over his face, the warpaint smearing into the palms of his gloves as he compared that night to his current situation. His eyes darted to a pack of menthol cigarettes on the dashboard that had been tempting him all day. He hadn't smoked in months, unintentionally breaking the habit when he'd been stuck in that fucking bed recovering, and not bothering to pick it up again when he was back on his feet. But right now, a cigarette seemed just the thing to help him think.

But before he could reach for a smoke, the burner in his pocket beeped, distracting the Joker from the promise of nicotine's sweet embrace.

His eyebrows lifted a fraction at the information blinking up at him from the phone screen, and his eyes slid sideways to the driver.

"Gotta hot tip here," he informed him in a low growl. "We're not gonna want to turn this one down."

* * *

They were on the Eastside again, but Dinah didn't know where. She had taken to sitting silently with her hands clenched in her lap while Harley drove the now busted-up Ferrari through winding side streets, avoiding freeways and main roads. A big part of Dinah was hoping the police would stop them, maybe a good cop who saw the battered sports car lurching down the street would realize it would be in everyone's best interest to stop that person. But she knew the police were corrupt, and any good cop who pulled them over would get a bullet in the face from Harley. It was a false start.

Good cops. Did they even exist? Dinah had never encountered one, though she knew Harley considered the Police Commissioner to be an idealist who couldn't be bought. For so long now, Dinah had been floating in this weightless space were right and wrong meant nothing. There was just survival. But maybe she'd been wrong.

She grabbed the roof when Harley stomped down on the brake, throwing the car into a tailspin as it careened to a stop outside a block of old, crumbling terraced houses. As the car rocked back and forth, settling into place, Dinah could feel Harley looking at her expectantly, but she refused to meet her eye. Instead, Dinah stared straight ahead at the deflated airbag in front of her. She could tell Harley was on the verge of saying something, but then she seemed to decide it was pointless and ducked out of the car.

Dinah listened to the sound of automatic gunfire as Harley kicked down the front door, and then to the screams of both men and women. For about fifteen minutes, Dinah sat in the car staring at the airbag, listening to the occasional scream or gunshot coming from inside the house.

Harley was a force of nature. Harley could not be controlled or stopped.

At least not by Dinah.

Eventually, Harley returned with her gun in one hand and a hammer in the other. Her hands were covered in blood, her dirty shirt was streaked with it, and even if it wasn't apparent on her dark suit, Dinah could taste the metallic tang of more blood in the air.

It was radiating off her.

Like death.

* * *

The Joker knew about this place. It was a whorehouse in the Bowery run by some Russians. It was the kind of place that catered to uh...  _unusual_  interests. The Joker wasn't the type to pay for it anyway, but even if he were, he wasn't interested in little girls or battered women who wouldn't say no to some light flaying during sex. But he had heard of it, and he wasn't the least bit surprised that Victor liked to frequent a place like this.

There were no fire hydrants spewing water this time, just the faint smell of burning rubber, which made him think he was less than twenty minutes behind her now. The sun was getting low in the sky, and he already knew where she was going next, but he wanted to see this first.

The front door was still open, and from within, he could hear women sobbing.

The Joker took a cautious step over the threshold and was immediately confronted with a body on the floor, its face bludgeoned so brutally it would be impossible to identify the person. Then he spotted another body a few feet down the hall, its hand smashed, and its face also bludgeoned. The further the Joker moved into the house, the more battered bodies he was confronted with, and it made him feel a little...

_Uneasy_.

He'd  _always_  liked that impulsive violent streak running through Harley, just like all that calculating ruthlessness attracted him to her, like a moth to the flame.

But this... wasn't that. This was erratic. Unhinged.  _Crazy._

Having seen enough, and knowing he was now operating on limited time, the Joker turned and left the house. He jumped into the passenger seat of the SUV and slammed the door behind him, then began to search the glove box for something to remove his warpaint.

"What you find?" his Lucky Hand driver asked suspiciously, just as the Joker began scraping the paint off his face.

"Uh," he hummed, looking down at the paint streaked cloth and then up at the driver. The Joker narrowed his eyes as he examined the guard's suit. He was a good five inches shorter than him, but he wasn't as skinny as some of his buddies. "I  _guess_  you could say she's gone off the deep end," the Joker said conversationally, his hand slipping into his jacket.

"The deep end?" The guard looked bewildered.

"Uh huh," the Joker retrieved a knife from his waistcoat pocket and lunged forward. "She's got a lot of  _feelings,"_  he continued as he cut the guard's throat, then grabbed a handful of his hair and forced his head back against the seat. "Ah, ta, ta, ta..." he sang, "be a pal and don't bleed on the pants, huh?"

* * *

Harley drove them Uptown, frequently flooding the Ferrari's engine in her haste to change gears and get them wherever they were going. It was evident to Dinah that suggesting they give up on tracking down Victor Zsasz was a non-starter. Harley wanted vengeance, and she was determined to get it. So Dinah resigned herself to the fact that soon enough they would be in a fight, one that might end with them getting killed or caught.

Sofia had told her to keep an eye on Harley—Dinah suspected she thought of her as Harley's unofficial bodyguard— but maybe this time, Dinah wouldn't fight back. She'd sit this one out and let them cart Harley off to Arkham, where she could be locked up in a padded cell and wouldn't be able to hurt anyone. It was definitely appealing, just letting her get taken away, but it wouldn't be that simple.

The option of escaping Gotham and Harley entirely was steadily growing more and more appealing to Dinah, and she didn't really believe that Harley would send people to find her if she took off. Once Harley calmed down, she would understand that Dinah needed to do something for herself. This feral, unchecked version of her would subside back into normal Harley eventually, and normal Harley would understand.

But leaving Gotham felt... cowardly. Dinah already knew where that would lead — living in a different shelter in a different city, with a different maid job to pay her just enough to survive. It wasn't that Dinah minded being poor—she would happily take it up again if it meant an escape from this—but she felt like she needed  _more_. Not more money, just more  _meaning._

Driving through Uptown was nerve-wracking, the eyeballs of people on the street watching them lurch by. The car didn't look so bad, but Harley's driving was painfully erratic, and it was only a matter of time before they got caught. Then they pulled into an alley behind a club, one Dinah had never been to before, and Harley turned off the engine before sitting back in her seat.

"You're coming in with me," she announced coldly, checking the long magazine on her modified automatic and slapping it back in when she was satisfied she had enough ammunition for whatever she was planning.

"Where are we?" Dinah asked quietly, sensing this location was different than all the others they'd been to yet.

"The Iceberg Lounge," Harley bit out, pushing her door open and stepping out, and Dinah found herself complying. Call it loyalty or outright stupidity, Dinah climbed out of the car and followed, feeling more like Harley's shadow than her own person.

The sun was setting as they entered the club through a back door that led into a stainless steel kitchen. Dinah waited in the middle of the kitchen, examining its unused surfaces while Harley carefully edged down a narrow hallway with her gun drawn. She reappeared less than thirty seconds later, looking more severe and focused than she had all day. Then she caught Dinah's eye as she pressed her index finger to her lips, and inclined her head toward two chrome doors.

Harley kicked the swinging doors open, revealing two young women sitting at the club's bar with drinks in front of them. A pretty brunette with sparkling green eyes and a redhead wearing a neon bikini. Both of them turned to look, their eyes widening when they saw Harley stomping across the club toward them.

"Lucy! Where the fuck is Victor!" Harley snapped, the same refrain that had been on her lips all day.

"Victor? Who the hell is Victor!" The brunette, Lucy, scoffed with a familiarity that made Dinah think she knew Harley. She was young and unarmed, but instead of looking scared, she seemed bewildered and pissed off as she jumped off her stool and narrowed her eyes. "Harley, what the hell is going on!"

"Victor  _Zsasz,"_  Harley elaborated coldly. "Penguin hired him."

"The boss is in Arkham, remember?" Lucy snapped, looking sour. "Get that gun outta my face, ya lunatic!"

Harley lowered her gun slowly, then punched Lucy in the nose, making her shriek in surprise.

"Victor completed his job for Penguin," Harley continued as Lucy moaned and covered her bleeding nose with both hands. "Where is he!"

"We don't know who the hell Victor is!" Lucy complained, her voice muffled by her hands. "Jesus Christ, Harley, yer acting deranged!"

"Deranged!" Harley yelped indignantly, straightened her arm over her head to let off a round of bullets into the ceiling, sending plaster raining down around them. "Don't you fucking forget you work for  _me_  now, Lucy!"

"I work for Sofia Falcone! Not that  _she's_  done me any favors since the boss went away," Lucy snapped back. "Get the hell out of my club, ya crazy bitch!"

Dinah braced herself, preparing to act but not sure on whose behalf as Harley pointed her gun at Lucy again, looking like she was about to shoot her.

"My, my,  _my,"_  a raspy voice purred behind them. " _This_  looks tense."

The voice made the hairs at the back of Dinah's neck stand on end, and she saw Harley and the others freeze too.

Dinah knew that weird, nasal voice from the news, and knowing he was there right behind her made her heart start to beat a little faster. Harley spun around to face him first, her black eyes narrowed to slits, her red mouth curled in an unhappy sneer. Dinah took a deep breath to calm herself before she turned around too, preparing herself for a psychotic clown in a purple suit with a gruesome face.

But what she encountered when she turned around wasn't the Joker. It was just a man. Leaning against the wall beside the swinging kitchen doors, coolly appraising all of them with his thumbs tucked in his front pockets. There was no purple suit, just an ugly lilac shirt rolled up to his elbows and unbuttoned at the throat, and a pair of dark pants that looked a little short for him. The club's lighting was dim, but if Dinah squinted, she could see the shiny flesh of two scars stretching up both sides of his face. He smirked lazily, his eyes trained on Harley, and Dinah quickly turned to see how her friend would react to this intrusion.

Harley rocked from one foot to the other, her jaw tensing. Then she took off, storming back across the club and into the kitchen, passing the Joker without looking at him.

The Joker eyed Dinah speculatively as she hurried after Harley, and Dinah found herself slowing down to stand before him. She tried to memorize his face, the real face of the Joker, because this was undoubtedly something to hold over him.

"Hey, little bird," he drawled, his dark eyes rolling over her thoughtfully. "What's cookin'?"

Dinah didn't react, feeling a little _... overwhelmed_  by the strength of his presence. Then there was an explosion of gunfire out in the alley, propelling Dinah forward again as she calculated the likelihood of escaping both the Joker and whoever else had come for them.

She burst out into the alleyway, her arms swinging into a defensive position, ready to fight. But there was only Harley, shooting her last rounds of ammunition into the side of a dumpster and stomping her feet petulantly. When she ran out of bullets, she threw her gun at the ground and kicked it away, like a child throwing its toys out of the playpen. Then she covered her face with her hands and screamed.

" _Harley._ "

Dinah spun around to find the Joker standing right behind her, glaring at Harley across the alley as he prodded his bottom lip with his tongue. Then he repeated Harley's name, quieter this time, and to Dinah's great surprise, Harley dropped her hands and turned to face him.

They shared a long, lingering look across the alley, and Dinah could see something significant was being silently communicated between them.

It made Dinah feel like she was  _intruding._

"We have to get out of here," she said, moving to open the battered Ferrari's door. She needed to get Harley away from him  _now._  "Harley, come on."

But Harley either didn't hear her or didn't care. She drifted back to the club, her shoulders slumping as she slowed to a stop in front of the Joker.

"Harley," Dinah said weakly, her heart sinking when the Joker's hand landed on one of Harley's shoulders, and instead of making any effort to push him off, Harley leaned into his touch.

He said something to her then, something Dinah couldn't hear but that Harley was listening to. Dinah was reminded of the proverb of the Eve and the serpent, hissing evil, seductive things that would bring about her doom. She wanted to step in, stop him from hissing malevolence to her friend like Satan himself, but she could see Harley nodding, getting sucked into his web of poison.

The urge to protect Harley ballooned up in Dinah anew, and she found herself remembering all the things Harley told her about how psychopaths manipulated their victims like the Joker was doing to her now. How they made them feel special, showing just enough affection to make them work for more. How they manipulated their victims into loving them, shaped them into acting against their own interests by using that love against them.

Harley said  _real_  psychopaths didn't just kill without remorse— the most dangerous ones were also intelligent, charming, manipulative, and cruel, and they covered their cruelty by imitating  _normal_  behavior to get away with their crimes. They were human beings stripped of their humanity, only capable of imitating it to the best of their abilities.

Then Dinah felt a shiver of understanding roll over her shoulders as she watched the Joker stoke Harley's hair while she leaned against him.

Harley wasn't the victim.

Dinah was.

* * *

As a rule, the Joker didn't lie to himself. People  _loved_  to waste time lying to themselves, but he didn't have the genes for it. Harley, on the other hand, she was as dishonest with herself as it was possible to be. Always forcing herself to be what she thought she was  _supposed_  to be, never fully accepting the world as it was. But the Joker took everything at face value, including his  _motivations,_  which were still hazy as he stood across from Harley in the alley behind the Iceberg Lounge, watching her rip herself apart.

If he wanted to get rid of her, this would be the time to do it. Knock her off the board while she was vulnerable and exposed. And as she drifted toward him, looking lost and tormented, he expected to feel a tingle of excitement over not knowing how this would all pan out. Instead, there was just this subdued  _need_  that tasted vaguely of self-preservation and drove the Joker to grab her shoulder in an attempt to anchor her.

Harley's eyes darted up to meet his, and he felt that tingle of excitement he'd been waiting for. Something about those dilated pupils and the way her reddened bottom lip was trembling, it told him anything could happen. He squeezed her shoulder harder, forcing her to be there with him instead of floating away on her hot air balloon of rage. That was right about where she was as far as he could see. Not quite standing with both feet on the ground. Not quite  _sane_.

"He cut her into pieces," she said breathlessly, her face spasming as she relived the moment she found what Victor left her. "There were only  _pieces_  of her."

"Sounds messy," the Joker hummed, raising his eyebrows appraisingly.

"I'm going to kill him," she growled, sending a shiver shooting straight up the Joker's spine. " _Slowly."_

He prodded the scar tissue inside his cheek with his tongue, eyeing her thoughtfully as he tried to work out the best way to land this plane. Psychotic Harley was no good to him or anyone else. This wasn't funny or interesting or even mildly entertaining. It was a waste. It would be disappointing to see her go out this way, even if he'd started the day with that goal in mind — sort of.

The Joker sighed dramatically, exasperated with the situation, and ducked his head down, forcing her to meet his eye. "D'you know how I found you that day? Huh?"

Harley blinked hard and shook her head, looking lost and confused, which he supposed was better than crazy.

"I grabbed a cup of coffee with Victor," the Joker continued, seeing he had her attention. "He gave me your  _fingernails_... And he said he would send me your  _female_  parts when he was done with them."

Her eyes widened with genuine surprise, and the Joker could see his words nudge away some of the fog shrouding her. There was a  _softness_  in that surprise on her face, which told him there was something personal at play here, something about  _him_  that was bringing her back down to earth, a thought that appealed to his ego  _greatly_.

"I got ya back before he could," he continued, taking note that this possessive language seemed to affect her too. "But when Victor wants to hide, there's no finding him. Trust me; I've  _tried._  You gotta play the long game and get him to come to  _you._ You hearing what I'm sayin'? Huh?"

Harley's eyes were darting around his face, and the Joker got the distinct impression that she was listening very intently to what he was saying. Absorbing it and taking it all in. It was gratifying because she was usually too pig-headed to listen. She'd never understood that he valued her opinion and advice either, but now she was nodding slowly, letting him know she understood and agreed, giving his ego a nice healthy boost and maybe sparking a little lust too.

"Victor's time will come," he promised her. "And then you'll be able to do  _whatever_  you want to him."

She leaned forward suddenly, lowering her face to his shoulder, searching out comfort after an emotionally fraught day. It seemed the Joker's emotional intelligence hit a wall when it came to finding the inspiration to make her feel any better than 'not crazy enough to get herself killed,' but he could feel her face through his shirt, and that little spark of lust reared its head again.

One of the Joker's favorite things about Harley was the way she pressed herself up against him as if she could never get close enough

Like she was trying to merge with him into one body, one superhuman.

What a  _terrific_  idea.

Talk about an unstoppable force of nature.

He was struck with the urge to kiss her, maybe it was feeling her lips on his arm through his shirt, maybe it was her listening to him for the first time  _ever,_ but this was not the time. Restraint was more than justified today. Instead, the Joker lifted his free hand and ran it over her hair, gingerly fingering the snarled strands as she sighed into his shoulder. His eyes darted over to her little friend, who was watching them warily, and he sensed Harley wouldn't have the easiest night ahead of her with this particular gal pal. But this girl had just followed Harley back and forth across the city on a murderous rampage. Was she really in a position to be judgemental about the fact that  _he_  was the one who calmed her down?

Some might say she owed him a  _thank you_.

A snarky comment for the little girl was bubbling on his tongue when Harley straightened up and lifted her eyes to his. This time they were clear, the circle of icy blue around her pupils far wider than it had been before.

"I have to go," she said quietly, possibly so her friend wouldn't hear, and she gave him a soft little smile.

"Kay," he agreed mildly, her soft smile making him reluctant to let her go. But he uncurled his hand from her shoulder and let it drop to his side, slightly bewildered that she had turned the tables so quickly again.

"Bye," she whispered, holding his gaze as she pulled away and backed up toward her friend.

The Joker watched her circle to the passenger side of the battered Ferrari while her friend started the car. He offered her a lazy smirk when she sent him one last look that he would have characterized as  _lingering_  before she ducked inside. His smirk grew as the Ferrari took off out of the alley and turned onto the street, and when he looked down at his shirt, he saw the black, white, and red impression of her face there, abstracted.

A chuckle escaped the Joker's throat as he wondered what circumstances would next throw them together.

* * *

They were stuck in Midtown traffic on the way back to Sofia's penthouse, but with Dinah behind the wheel, their battered Ferrari could pass for the aftermath of a stockbroker driving drunk instead of the impossible-to-ignore bat-out-of-hell something-is-obviously-wrong picture Harley made as the driver.

She had been utterly silent since getting back in the car at the Iceberg Lounge some twenty minutes earlier. The picture of thoughtful self-introspection, a total reversal from the tornado of rage and vengeance she'd been before the Joker showed up to calm her down.

Dinah remembered conversations with Harley and Pam very early on in their friendship when they discussed the Joker. Being a decade younger and lacking experience of the romantic variety, Dinah was mostly left out of those conversations. However, it still trickled down to her that Pam was convinced Harley had been in love with the Joker, and that Pam was relieved he was dead and they had replaced him as Harley's companions.

One time, Roxy let it slip that she'd seen Harley and the Joker kissing in the parking lot outside Grin and Bare It, and then another time she'd seen Harley take the Joker up to her room. "Oooh boy..." Roxy had giggled, fanning herself. "Those two couldn't keep their hands off each other. Talk about chemistry!"

It seemed impossible, Harley being in love with the Joker. But what Dinah had just witnessed proved to her there was at least some truth in it...

... And that it was  _mutual._

It didn't matter that he looked like a man underneath his Joker paint, he was still a monster, and Dinah was coming to realize Harley was no better than him, no matter how nice and friendly and protective she was capable of being. No matter how distractingly beautiful and disarmingly funny she was. No matter how good she was at hiding all of that...  _evil_. 

Dinah drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as the traffic inched forward. She glanced sideways at Harley, who was fingering a tangle in hair and staring out the window, deep in thought.

"Are you alright?" Dinah asked uneasily. 

Harley looked over at her, her Harlequin paint smeared enough that Dinah could see her real face beneath. Placid like the Joker had hypnotized her.

She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could speak, a whirring sound filled the air around them, rapidly growing louder as it came closer.

The Batman.

The roof of the Ferrari suddenly caved in as a deadweight fell on top of them, splintering the windshield and crushing the roof down over them. The remaining airbag deployed as Dinah slid down in her seat, panic rippling through her as she imagined being crushed to death.

Harley was fighting to get her mangled door open, and all around them, car horns were blaring and bumpers were hitting each other as chaos broke out on the street. Dinah followed Harley's lead and tried to get her door open when a bright fissure of light appeared through the crumpled remains. It wiggled sideways, accompanied by a high pitched whine, and Dinah realized something was burning straight through the metal.

She turned to Harley, knowing her door was now the only way out, her heart sinking as she watched Harley kick and beat her door futilely.

The little fissure of light completed a full circle, and when the circle of metal flew off with a  _CLANG_ , a gloved hand reached in and grabbed the front of Dinah's hoodie, dragging her out into the night. She was lifted up off her feet, and suddenly found herself eye to eye with the Batman, who was unquestionably the thing that had landed on top of the car.

Dinah had fought the Batman several times by now, and she had always managed to get the upper hand over him. The Batman was a bull, while she was a crane. He fought with brute strength, something that may have worked on common criminals but wasn't a match for Dinah's refined skill set and much quicker reflexes.

He pulled her closer, glaring into her eyes as he realized he had her instead of Harley. Dinah held his gaze, wondering if he saw her as a real threat or merely an irritation. In that moment, she discovered a deep-seated need to  _prove_  she was more than what she suspected the Batman thought of her; more than just a psychopath's  _bodyguard._

But before Dinah could act, Harley tumbled out of the car and into the street, and Dinah heard the click of a revolver's hammer.

The Batman threw Dinah at Harley, using her as a human balustrade to send them both careening to the ground. There was a dull  _crack_ when Harley's head hit the pavement, her body breaking Dinah's fall. Dinah scrambled to get off her, but before she could plant her feet, the Batman wrapped one large hand around her upper arm, ready to toss her aside so he could get to Harley.

Dinah moved fast, swinging her forearm down on a pressure point in the Batman's shoulder, then elbowing him in the gut where the plates in his armor shifted. He grunted and took a step back, granting Dinah space to prepare herself for a second attack. Her legs landed in Hourglass pose, and her arms swung up, one cocked in front of her face, the other stretched out toward the Batman with her palm open. She looked down her nose at him, meeting his eye with her own steely gaze, and wagged her fingers twice, letting him know she was ready to engage.

Even shrouded in black, Dinah saw the Batman's eyes widen in surprise. She took advantage of the opportunity, leaping forward to attack and forcing him to defend himself as she pursued him.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Harley pull herself up and feel the back of her head. The distraction cost Dinah a punch to the ribs, but she ducked the Batman's next three punches easily, swooping from side to side faster than he was able to move, making him look like a man trying to swat away flies instead of Gotham's Dark Knight. He paused to recalibrate, seeing his strategy wasn't working, and Dinah dove forward, hitting him where she knew his armor was weakest.

Then there was the click of a revolver's hammer again, audible even over the sounds of car doors slamming and horns blaring.

"Get out of the way, Dinah!" Harley barked.

Dinah could feel Harley coming up right behind her, storming forward like a force of nature, ready to shoot the Batman once she cleared the way.

She couldn't let that happen.

Dinah ducked a punch from the Batman and spun on her heel, the worn-down soles of her Chuck Taylors sliding across the asphalt as her leg swept up in a graceful arch. Her foot connected with Harley's hand, knocking the gun away. She heard Harley's surprised gasp but didn't spare her a glance as she swung back around to the Batman, her leg still aloft. She used the momentum propelling her around to kick him in the chest, throwing him clear off his feet.

Knocking the Batman off his feet was as good as winning; it wasn't like she could kill him.

"Come on!" Dinah called over her shoulder as she sprinted past Harley.

Yellow cabs and expensive cars were crowding together in the street, fender benders and people standing outside their vehicles forcing Harley and Dinah up on top of the cars as they fled the Batman. He'd recovered already, and Dinah could hear him thundering after them, the metallic crunch of car hoods caving under his weight. He was gaining on them, not because he was faster, but because Harley was slowing Dinah down. Apparently, running expertly in heels didn't extend to fleeing when she wasn't sure-footed on the ground.

Harley must have realized this too because the sound of her heels cracking against cars stopped suddenly, and Dinah turned back to see she had braced herself on the roof of a taxi.

"Go!" Harley waved her off, planting her feet as the Batman headed straight for her.

Dinah was a few car lengths ahead, not sure if she should keep going or go back for Harley, finding herself stuck in limbo.

The Batman attempted to sweep Harley's legs out from under her, but before he could she launched herself into a forward flip off the roof of the taxi. Her lack of hesitation threw him as she disappeared over his head and landed on his shoulders, her thighs wrapping around his neck as her fists rained down on his head.

He swung around erratically, trying to throw her off, but Harley managed to hold on until one particularly violent shake sent her flying. She crashed into the windshield of a yellow cab, her body landing hard enough to crack the glass and dent the hood. The Batman stopped his attack and stared at her, waiting to see if she'd get back up like she always did. Her shoulders twitched, and for a moment, it looked like she was going to try, but then her head lolled to the side and she stopped moving.

The Batman spun around to look for Dinah, and their eyes connected across the four cars between them. He started forward hesitantly like he couldn't bring himself to leave Harley, even turning back to check on her. But Harley remained unmoving where she'd landed, and this seemed to satisfy him enough that he started for Dinah again.

Dinah frantically looked around for an exit, knowing she wouldn't be able to get away on foot, and spotted a window washer's cart some thirty feet overhead. There was a rope dangling just close enough that she could reach it with a little luck. She glanced back at the Batman, who was steadily stomping toward her while behind him, Harley was picking herself up and rolling off the hood of the taxi.

The horrific events of the day suddenly flashed before Dinah's mind's eye in a rush as she watched Harley start to limp away. Dinah saw the bodies of Harley's victims, and the feral, unchecked rage she obviously had no interest in controlling. She saw the whistful way Harley had looked at the Joker despite knowing what he was—maybe even  _because_  of what he was. Now she was getting away, and the familiar urge to  _stop her_  ballooned up in Dinah renewed.

She threw both of her arms up in the air, shouting and gesturing wildly at Harley's retreating form.

Realizing what was happening, the Batman spun around and took after Harley while Dinah turned back to the rope. She jumped like her life—or at least her freedom—depended on it, hissing with joy when her hands closed around its rough strands. She started to climb, and by the time she reached the washer's cart, the Batman and Harley had disappeared into the night.

Knowing there was nothing more she could do, Dinah found the pulley mechanism that would mobilize the window washer's cart and began to move up along the side of the skyscraper.

* * *

The Joker drained the last of the beer in his pint glass—something they called West Coast Ski Jump Craft IPA—and flagged down the bartender for another. The dive bar Downtown was cute in a scrappy, anonymous kinda way. He'd taken note of that anonymous quality when he went looking for Joe the Driver per Victor's instructions the year before. He'd pegged it as a place for closeted gay men at the time; a theory confirmed when a fellow patron sidled up to him at the urinal some fifteen minutes earlier. _'Not tonight pal,'_  the Joker rasped in an affected accent that fell somewhere between Irish and Australian. Not his best work.

Behind the bar, they were showing a baseball game on one screen and news on the other. The Joker's eyes drifted between the two, his thoughts much, much further away. One train of thought was circling the drain on an idea he'd been working on all night, a little something he came up with on the walk down from the Iceberg Lounge. He'd given Midtown a wide berth— it was lacking in dark corners and seedy alleyways the rest of Gotham boasted—but he'd needed to walk to burn off some Harley-generated energy and get his creative juices flowing. There were new  _events forthcoming_  to be thinking about.

The other train of thought was wondering what Harley was doing —obsessively so—but that was par for the course.

The door to the bar swung open and slammed shut, and a scrawny body threw itself onto the stool beside the Joker.

"Jesus Christ, J," Lonnie complained under his breath, flagging down the bartender. "Where the fuck have you been?"

"Oh," the Joker sighed melodramatically, keeping his voice low. "It's a long story."

His eyes were drawn to the television showing the news, where they were playing shaky footage taken on a cell phone. Footage of Harley running from the Batman, jumping from one car roof to the next like she was flying.

"A  _really_  long story," the Joker drawled, his eyes widening.

* * *

Dinah sat on top of the skyscraper she'd scaled, watching them clean up the street below as she came to a series of conclusions about her actions, the actions of those around her, and what she needed to do next.

She was thinking about the Batman a lot too. What motivated him to do what he did? How had he become the Batman? What happened to him to make him believe it was  _his_  job to police a corrupt city?

Everything she owned was at the penthouse but she couldn't go back there, not knowing what had happened to Roxy. It didn't matter. What were some clothes and mementos anyway? Just objects with no value. She could go to Sofia's penthouse to meet the others, the irony that a homeless orphan only had penthouses to go to not lost on her. But staring out at Gotham's skyline, Dinah knew she would not go back to Harley this time, and once she made the decision, it seemed crazy that she hadn't made it sooner.

She snuck into the skyscraper she'd been loitering on top of and found her way down to the ground floor, and out into the street. She pulled her hood up to cover her hair as she snuck onto the metro since she didn't have any money, then took the train to the east side of Downtown, getting off at the stop closest to the MCU. It was a squat, square building with a fire escape against one side that would make it easy to climb up on the roof.

Dinah hooked one leg and then the other over the railing at the top of the fire escape and looked around, spotting a spotlight covered with a tarp. An object now considered to be a shameful mistake.

Dinah strode purposefully up to the spotlight and ripped the tarp off, exposing the smashed glass and steel beneath. But the bulb was still working, even if the bat signal was defunct. She turned it on and twisted the spotlight to the sky, exhaling in relief as a mangled impression of a bat took shape in the clouds overhead.

It took about ten minutes for the fire door to slam open, the bespeckled, mustached man she knew to be Commissioner Gordon bursting out onto the roof with his gun drawn.

Dinah put her hands up, noticing that there weren't other cops with him. He was alone, something she already knew to be true about him. It confirmed her theory that Gordon was the only man who could help her now.

"What are you doing here!" He demanded, "Where's your boss!"

"She's not my boss anymore," Dinah frowned. "I need to talk to the Batman."

Gordon's face spasmed in surprise but he still lowered his gun, and Dinah released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Perhaps one she'd been holding for far too long.

Harley Quinn was a psychopath who manipulated you into feeling like you owed her something, and it was hard to shake off. But Dinah Drake had finally managed to do just that.

* * *

**A/N: So that was a little bit different! I know all of you are like uh, Dinah, lame, but** **I thought we could do with a reality check on Harley via Dinah's morally-superior eyes. Obviously, the morality-free Joker was going all heart-eyed over her murderous rampage.**

**Six chapters left, you guys.**

**Next: Harley recovers after her fight with Batman, and the cartels come to Gotham.**

**Please comment & review xo **


	27. Chapter 27

The Harlequin

27.

* * *

There was a motorcycle parked on the street, probably belonging to a delivery driver getting a package signed inside. Harley stole that motorcycle—a type of vehicle she had never driven before in her life—and managed to get to her safe house in Burnley Arms without killing herself, even with at least one concussion making her vision blur. She stashed the bike in an alley beside the project block and limped through the maze of brick walls, her head spinning and bile rising in her throat. A key to the apartment was stashed in a loose brick beside the front door, and after several false starts getting the key in the lock, Harley managed to get the door open and fell over the threshold.

She caught herself against the wall and paused there to catch her breath before she staggered into the kitchen and promptly vomited into the kitchen sink. Two days without sleep and little food was doing nothing to help that pesky concussion. Her stomach rolled, and she dry heaved, the effort making her hyper-aware of her injured body after that less than safe landing on the hood of a taxi.

One more dry heave and she turned on the faucet, dunking her head under the freezing water and gulping down a few mouthfuls to soothe her aching throat. Everything was aching. Her shoulders and her spine. Her tailbone and her ribs. Her left wrist, which felt sprained at least, hopefully not broken.

Harley wrapped her arms around her stomach and closed her eyes, breathing deeply through her nose in an attempt to master the pain. Then she pushed away from the sink and limped to the bathroom.

She sat down hard on the side of the bathtub and turned on the tap, letting the tub fill up. The water was freezing, probably because whoever used to live in the apartment got murdered before they could get the boiler fixed. That hardly mattered. Harley was less interested in getting clean than numbing her body.

Still breathing loudly through her nose, she edged her arms out of her blazer and tossed it on the floor before starting on her shirt. They were both filthy and covered in rust-colored streaks, evidence of the day she'd had. But she couldn't think about that right now. She unbuckled her shoes, her fingers trembling, and kicked off her heels, then slithered out of her pants, sighing once she'd finished this overwhelmingly exhaustive task. Then she lowered herself into the bathtub, the freezing water making her ache in a different way. But she kept breathing, kept lowering herself, and soon she was submerged.

Harley released a breath as her body sank to the bottom of the tub. She could feel herself losing consciousness, which would inevitably end with her drowning if she gave into it. How pathetic that would be. As she started to slip away, she thought about how the Joker would react when he found out she drowned in a bathtub. Vast disappointment. Not very amusing. It gave her the strength to return to the surface, gasping down a painful lungful of air.

She couldn't think about the Joker anymore. He was too confusing. With a few careful words and some uncharacteristically _personal_  insight, he'd pulled her out of a black hole of despair. He should have wanted her dead. He shouldn't have had the emotional capacity to want to  _help._ Trying to understand what the Joker wanted felt futile, but it had consumed her since she left him in the alley behind the Iceberg Lounge—right up until she had a bigger problem to deal with.

Then there was Zsasz. Harley had started the day intending to rip him apart, limb from limb. Oh, she would still kill him, and she would do it slowly, until he was begging for death. Maybe today wasn't that day, but he couldn't hide from her forever. Unfortunately, revenge would have to take a back seat to more pressing, real-world concerns.

In twenty-four hours, Harley would be face to face with the most dangerous men in the southern hemisphere. Men who controlled actual countries, not just cities. They were supposed to be her priority now.

There was so much she was  _supposed_  to do.

Harley pulled herself out of the bathtub, the numbness soothing her aches and pains enough to make them bearable. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the sink and sighed. Her face was fine for a change, beyond her skin looking bone-white and her eyes sunken. But her back was a constellation of angry bruises blooming to the surface. Her left shoulder blade was purple, the right side of her lower back black and blue, and there was a particularly horrible maroon-colored bruise stretching around her ribs. She couldn't tell if they were broken or bruised, and when she prodded them experimentally, they didn't hurt as much as she remembered the last time she'd sustained that long-lasting, frustrating injury. Maybe she remembered it wrong. Maybe she was better at mastering pain now.

Still naked and dripping water, Harley picked up her almost shattered phone from the pile of clothes on the bathroom floor and dragged herself to the bedroom. She landed on top of the sheets, the clean, inviting smell making her eyes roll up in her head. But if she passed out with a concussion, she might never wake up.

Harley rolled onto her back and squinted at her phone screen in the dark, selecting Pam's number before loosely holding the phone to her ear.

"Harley!" Pam yelped on the second ring, making Harley cringe because it sounded  _so_ unlike her friend. "Where the hell are you guys? What the hell happened? What the hell is going on?"

Harley sighed loudly into the phone. "Typical Batman encounter," she said, her voice sounding weak. "I'm alright, just lying low. I lost track of Dinah."

"You  _lost_  Dinah?" Pam snapped incredulously, making Harley roll her eyes.

"She's a big girl. She can look after herself," she sighed again, her hand drifting down to prod her ribs, trying to decide if they were bruised.

"And Zsasz?" Pam pushed. "Did you get him?"

Harley didn't answer immediately. She thought about how angry she'd been, and how Pam didn't sound angry so much as nervous. It was more than reasonable for Pam to be afraid of Victor Zsasz, though his pathology made Harley think he wouldn't come for either of them.

She was thinking logically again, which brought her thoughts back around to the Joker once more, and the way he had  _comforted_  her in his own weird, limited way. Maybe he didn't want to see her die and made an exception just this once.

"Harley?" Pam snapped.

"No," Harley sighed. "I couldn't find him."

She heard Pam tisking unhappily on the other end of the line but didn't have the energy to get annoyed, and ended the call after a few more reassurances that everything would be fine. That she would take care of everything once she got some sleep.

When she was finally free of Pam's nagging, Harley's eyes slid shut again. She was fading, but she rationalized that if she'd been able to have a conversation with Pam, she wasn't in danger of a brain hemorrhage while she slept **.  
**

* * *

Harley slept until the next afternoon. Her head felt better after resting, and the nausea had passed, but her body was aching fiercely. She distracted herself by watching cell phone footage of her and Dinah fighting the Batman posted on social media. Some of it was pretty good. Then her phone died, and without anything to entertain her, her thoughts turned to the Joker again. What did he  _want_ from her?

Even though her clothes were ruined, the neighborhood of Burnely Arms was hardly a nice part of town, and Harley rationalized that her filthy shirt and wrinkled pants would at least allow her to go to the bodega down the street for food and Tylenol. Keeping her head down and letting her hair cover her face, Harley did her best not to limp as she staggered into the bodega and past the owner behind the counter. She used the debit card for her Kiyv Financial account—which currently contained a cool five million dollars—to pull out a few hundred in cash, then rounded up supplies.

The safehouse had no microwave, stove, oven or refrigerator, which left Harley with few options for sustenance. Beef jerky, tortilla chips and some over-ripe bananas would have to do. She grabbed a bottle of gin and some extra strength pain killers along with a phone charger, then dumped it all on the counter in front of the bodega owner.

As he rang her up, Harley spotted a display of novelty face masks and threw three of them into the pile. Then she eyed up the bodega owner's blue and white bowling shirt.

"Fifteen ninety," he announced, pushing the bag of groceries toward her.

"I'll give you two hundred for your shirt," Harley offered, sounding tired.

The bodega owner's eyes widened. "Uh... my shirt?"

"Yeah," Harley nodded. "I'm down on my luck if you can't tell," she added wryly.

Bewildered but not about to turn down two-hundred dollars for a ten-dollar shirt, the bodega owner unbuttoned his bowling shirt and passed it over to her, leaving him standing in his undershirt.

"Thanks," Harley sighed, handing over the money and taking her bag of supplies. "Keep the change."

Back at the apartment, Harley made her way through two bags of tortilla chips and a few shots of gin as she charged her phone and searched for boilers online. She wasn't sure why she was putting any effort into making this safehouse liveable, when it would inevitably become compromised and too dangerous to go to like all safehouses. But screw it, she had money to burn, and she wanted hot water.

Pam started texting her relentlessly as evening approached. Dinah still hadn't turned up, and Pam was getting anxious something had happened to her, but Harley had a different theory. Dinah had been growing more and more disengaged from them. It had only been a matter of time before she took off, but that was fine. Good for her, taking her life into her own hands and doing what she wanted.

Harley took another freezing bath and knocked back a few more Tylenol with gin, then applied one of the novelty face masks that claimed it would leave her skin feeling luminous. She sighed and let her head fall back against the tiled wall, trying to ignore the sensation of being stabbed all over from the icy water.

The sun was getting low in the sky, which meant she only had a few hours until the cartels arrived. Harley wanted to hibernate forever in that little apartment, or at least until she'd recovered some more. But that wasn't currently an option available to her.

Then her phone beeped on the floor beside the bathtub, and she opened one eye to see that she had a message from Sofia. She shook her hand, sending droplets of water flying, and picked up her phone to read the message.

The Lucky Hand had raided one of Yuri's smaller storehouses. They'd stolen half a million dollars worth of product and killed the men guarding it. Harley sighed again, thinking the timing couldn't be any worse with the cartels on the way. She had a hard time believing the Joker was involved in the raid. It was completely against type, not his style at all. The place would have been burned to the ground if he'd had a hand in the planning.

That was another thing Harley couldn't understand. Working for the Lucky Hand was _far_  too pedestrian to be the only thing he had on his plate. Every time he'd 'worked' for someone in the past, he'd fucked them over—Maroni, Penguin. If he didn't already have something up his sleeve, it was only a matter of time before he did.

Harley continued to treat herself with gin and Tylenol until midnight rolled around. She felt better though she knew she wouldn't stand a chance in a fight.

She got dressed in the bodega owner's shirt and called Nikki to pick her up. On the drive to Midtown, she stared out the window, watching Gotham's Eastside roll past, and her thoughts turned to the Joker  _again._ People said she understood him better than anyone, but she had no idea what he was thinking now. No idea what he was planning. No idea what he wanted, from her or from Gotham. And it was exhausting trying to understand.

Pam probably still expected Harley to kill him, but after what had passed between them outside the Iceberg Lounge, Harley wasn't sure she'd be able to do it.

There was a flip side to exhaustively speculating over what the Joker wanted, and that was figuring out what Harley wanted too.

Maybe she should just leave, get the hell out of Gotham and start over somewhere. Open a gymnastics studio and buy a house and eat more vegetables.

But she knew that would never happen.

Nikki pulled into the parking garage beneath Sofia's building and dutifully waited with the car while Harley rode the elevator up to the penthouse. She stepped over the threshold to find Pam and Sofia with six Odessa thugs, all clearly under Pam's influence, as they prepared to leave.

"My God, Harley!" Sofia looked horrified. "What the bloody hell happened to you?"

"Batman threw me into a car," Harley said dully.

"I meant what are you  _wearing_?" Sofia feigned a shudder as her hooded eyes rolled over the bodega owner's bowling shirt. "Let me find you something from my closet," she added, shaking her head as she turned toward the curved staircase leading to the upper levels of the penthouse.

"What is going on!" Pam flew into Harley's face then, apparently torn between anger and concern as she looked Harley over. "You look terrible!"

"I feel terrible," Harley pointed out, and Pam made that annoying  _tisking_  sound she'd been prone to lately.

"Where's Dinah?" She pivoted, wringing her hands. "I still haven't heard from her."

"Pam," Harley sighed and started for the gilded bar cart in the living room. She needed a drink. "Dinah is gone."

"What do you mean she's gone?" Pam stomped after her. "How is she gone? Wait—do you mean she's  _dead?_  Oh my god! What—"

"Not dead," Harley rolled her eyes. "Dinah wasn't happy, so she left to do whatever it is that will make her happy."

Harley pulled the lid off a crystal decanter and sniffed the contents— whiskey, good enough—and swallowed a mouthful straight from the decanter.

"How can you say that as if it's fine!" Pam shouted, any concern she may have been clinging to vanishing into anger. "She knows everything about us! What if she tells someone? What if we lose all of this?"

"All of this?" Harley snapped incredulously, spinning around to face Pam. "We're glorified drug dealers, Pam. We're  _mob_  enforcers."

She swallowed another mouthful of whiskey before replacing it on the bar cart while Pam screwed up her face, looking offended.

"I am not a drug dealer or a... a  _mob_  enforcer," Pam shot back defensively, her face contorting at the accusation. "I'm a good person."

"Oh, fuck  _off_ ," Harley groaned, ignoring Pam's sharp intake of breath. "I keep telling you, Pam—you're letting your powers control you. They're turning you into a nervous wreck and a  _massive_  pain in my ass. _"_

Harley started to turn back to the foyer, her exasperation with Pam reaching a boiling point.

"Were you with him last night?" Pam demanded suddenly, and when Harley turned back around to face her, she was a little startled to see Pam's shoulders were hunched, her green eyes glowing with suspicion. "Is that where you were? With the Joker?"

" _No,"_  Harley said bitterly, thinking that for all his faults, the Joker would never treat her like this. The Joker was not intellectually dishonest or deluded. The Joker didn't expect so much from her. He might try to kill her, but who the hell cared at this point.

"You think I haven't noticed that you've been different since he's been back?" Pam continued indignantly, her face crumpling as her voice rose a few octaves. "Everything is a problem with you now! Nothing is good enough! It's just one big pity party twenty-four-seven!"

"Pam, I swear to god," Harley rounded on her, a threat lingered on her tongue; a threat she might have carried out if Pam kept it up. The only thing that stopped her was the knowledge that this  _behavior_  wasn't Pam's fault— or maybe it was considering she  _refused_ to stop using her powers.

"What on earth is going on?" Sofia appeared at the bottom of the staircase, a few lengths of fabric draped over her arm as her eyes darted between them. "Stop fighting. This is absurd!"

Harley smoothed her palm over her forehead, a fresh headache forming behind her eyes. She tried to focus on what mattered, or at least what was supposed to matter — showing the cartels that they three controlled Gotham. Sofia depended on her. Yuri depended on her. Marty and the Odessas and all their boys were all depending on her.

She sighed and held her arms out for the bundle of clothes, and Sofia handed over with a disapproving look Harley had seen her use on her children. Harley ignored it and turned around to find some privacy so she could change.

Pam was right in one respect. Harley had been indulging in a near-constant pity party, but it had been going on long before the Joker returned. She hated the idea of being a self-pitying wretch who did nothing about her situation. She was turning into something she hated, and she had no idea how to make it stop. She didn't know what else she was supposed to _do_.

Sofia had given her a tight black dress and a tan trench coat along with a small velvet bag containing lacy lingerie with French labels. Harley rolled her eyes as she pulled off the tags. That was a Sofia Falcone touch if ever there was one. But she pulled on the lingerie anyway and zipped up the dress which was uncomfortably tight since Sofia was at least a size smaller than Harley with her heroin chic figure. Harley shrugged her holster back on, followed by the trench coat, then looked in the mirror at her pale face and sunken eyes and sighed. The self-pity was steadily evolving into self-loathing the longer she did nothing about it. Not even upstanding Dr Quinzel would have allowed herself to behave like this.

Harley squatted down beside her ruined pants and pulled out her phone, a collection of keys and knives, and a paint pallet from the pockets, then set about painting her face. Big black eyes, ghostly white skin, a sloppy red mouth. She licked her lips, tasting the chalky paint, and sighed again.

Dr Quinzel had been unhappy and changed her circumstances.

Harley wished she had Dr Quinzel around to remind her how she'd managed that now.

* * *

Dinah had been in the interrogation room for nearly twenty-four hours. The only person she'd seen in that time was Gordon, who clearly did not trust her. He questioned her through the night, and she resisted at first, insisting she would only talk to the Batman. Gordon was a good cop, and that meant if she confessed anything to him, he would take action to see her punished for her crimes of aiding and abetting Harley Quinn. But the Batman, he might understand. He operated outside the law—that was his entire purpose.

"You must know how suspicious this looks," Gordon sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

"Yes," Dinah nodded. She wasn't quite at the point of regretting her decision to come to Gordon for help, but she was getting closer.

He brought her a burger and fries for dinner and tried to get her to talk as the evening wore on, mostly probing for information that would help him find Harley. Dinah let a few superfluous details slip, but nothing that would give him Harley. Harley was Dinah's only bargaining chip, the only thing between Gordon locking her up and granting her access to the Batman.

She told him how she met Harley, but not about the bank robbery that followed. She told him about Roxy's brutal murder at the hands of a man named Victor Zsasz, but not about standing idly by as Harley left a trail of bodies across the city while she hunted him. She told him Harley was a complicated person and tried to explain what it was about her that had made Dinah feel so comfortable doing things she should not have been comfortable doing.

The clock on the wall said it was just after midnight when Gordon locked her in the interrogation room with a bag of cookies and a bottle of water. Dinah sensed this was for her safety, but also that Gordon didn't know what else to do with her. She thought he might be warming up to her, even if sending a seventeen-year-old girl to infiltrate Gordon's camp was just the kind of plot Harley Quinn would cook up.

It had been almost two days since she'd last slept, something that hadn't bothered Dinah while Gordon questioned her, but now that she was alone, she started to nod off in her chair.

Then finally, he came.

One minute she was alone and her eyelids were drooping, and when she opened them, he was there — looming right in front of her under the fluorescent lights. The Batman, eyeing her curiously.

"Who are you?" He rumbled, and Dinah felt a lump form in her throat. This was a moment she could not screw up.

"Dinah Drake," she said, sitting up straight.

"You work for Harley Quinn," the Batman growled. "I've seen you protecting her. I've fought you. Why should I believe you're here to help?"

Dinah licked her lips, trying to figure out what he needed to hear to believe her.

"Harley's protective of the people she cares about, and that makes it easy to ignore all the bad things..." Dinah lifted her eyes to the Batman's, her expression grim. "But today I saw who she really is. She needs to be stopped before she does something  _really_ bad."

The Batman eyed her warily, weighing up her words

"What made you realize that," he asked at length, his voice low but more human this time.

"The Joker," Dinah said gravely. "I saw them together, and it was the first time I realized she's just like him. That I've been lying to myself because she treated me like I was special. I know I have a lot to make up for, and I want to help if I can."

The Batman mulled this over, his eyes darting away from Dinah's as he processed what she was telling him.

"What happened to your parents?" He said gruffly, his eyes on the floor.

"I don't know," Dinah shrugged. "I've been on my own for as long as I can remember. Or at least I was until Harley came along."

The Batman nodded slowly and took a deep breath like he was accepting something inevitable.

"Can you tell me where to find the Joker and Harley Quinn?" He asked, meeting her eye again.

"I don't know the Joker. I've only seen him once," Dinah frowned, pursing her lips. "Harley was hurt really bad last night. She has safe houses I don't know about, and she's probably at one of those now. I doubt she'd realize I would come to you, but maybe I know something that can help."

The Batman grunted thoughtfully. "What was it about seeing her with the Joker... how did that make you see the truth about her?"

"They way they looked at each other. It was like..." Dinah made a face, cliches from romance movies the only thing she could come up with, none of which were quite right, and finally, she settled on: "... like nothing else existed. Like they were the only two people in the world, the only two who mattered."

The Batman snorted incredulously and shook his head as if this was an impossible concept for him to understand. Dinah could sympathize.

"Harley said the Joker is the rarest kind of psychopath," Dinah continued grimly. "Charming, manipulative, intelligent, sadistic, zero empathy. She's all those things too, but she doesn't see it. She doesn't realize she's  _just_  like him, and she's so convinced she makes the people around her believe it too."

"How could she not know that?" the Batman frowned.

"Underneath all the paint, they both look human," Dinah replied slowly. "But they're not, even if they think they are. They're  _both_  monsters. If you think the Joker is bad, just imagine what he'd be like with Harley helping him take over the city." Dinah narrowed her eyes, seeing she had the Batman's attention. "We  _have_  to stop them."

* * *

Pam sat in the front seat, studiously ignoring Harley and Sofia in the backseat. No one spoke. Sofia was doing a good job of keeping her opinion on the rift between Harley and Pam to herself though that didn't stop her shooting them both irritated looks as Nikki pulled the Range Rover onto an empty Midtown street and headed east.

Harley was exhausted and frustrated, and her dress was too tight. She started getting texts from Vicki complaining that one of the MCU sources Harley sent her way was making contradicting statements. Harley held back a sigh but sent a few threatening messages to a few cops on her payroll and told Vicki to hold her horses.

They stopped to pick up Bullock outside the Stacked Deck. He reeked of whiskey and tobacco, his cheeks ruddy with drink and the trilby on his head sitting crooked. He was nervous, and as Harley scooted over to make space for him, he mumbled awkward greetings to all of them.

"You smell delightful, Detective Bullock," Sofia observed drolly, and Bullock shot her a nasty look but kept his mouth shut.

Despite the tension in the car and the stench of Bullock, Harley managed to fall asleep for most of the hour-long drive to the city's southern-most limits. The heads of the Escabedo and Penitente Cartels would be arriving at an airstrip just outside the city. Harley had not prepared for this meeting, but it was crucial she get it right. She decided to rely on her great capacity for improvisation and leave it at that.

Gotham was a constellation of islands and some urban sprawl on the other side of the bridges. Once you got past those external districts, the scenery turned from an urban hellscape into a lush forest of evergreens and leafy deciduous trees. Harley stared out the window at the passing trees and saw a deer poke its head out of the bushes. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen nature flourishing with such reckless abandon.

 _Flourishing._  What a novel concept.

Nikki pulled off the highway onto a narrow road leading into a thicket of trees, their branches scratching against the side of the car. Eventually, the road opened into a clearing with an airstrip lined with runway edge lights. Waiting for them were two hulking SUVs belonging to Yuri and Boris Kosov, the Odessa gang leader. Marty's Camaro was noticeably absent but it didn't take a genius to figure out where he was, his loyalty to the Joker unquestionable.

They sat in the car in silence, waiting for the minutes to tick by until they heard the faint buzzing of propellers in the distance, growing louder with the passing seconds. Harley peered up at the night sky in time to see a small plane approaching from the south. Not the two engine drug runner plane she'd expected, but a sleek private jet with  _Gulfstream X5_  painted across the side. She snorted quietly. So it was going to be like that, huh.

They stayed in the car as the plane landed, it's engines noisily winding down. Yuri and Boris climbed out of their cars with their boys on their heels, and Harley, Pam, and Sofia followed suit with Bullock stumbling out of the car behind them. They joined the Russians and the Odessas, all of whom were chain-smoking and sporting deep frowns.

"Let's get this over with," Harley announced, leading the way toward the airstrip as the plane's door opened and a staircase was pushed up against the side of the fuselage.

With the plane's door open, Harley could hear girls giggling and champagne corks popping as four men carting assault rifles exited the plane. They looked like what Harley would expect coke dealer thugs from Columbia to look like, with sweat-stained undershirts beneath unbuttoned Hawaiian shirts and plenty of gold chains and crucifixes around their necks.

A tall man with a massive belly exited the plane next. He wore a gray suit with a bolero tie and cowboy boots and smirked when he saw them waiting there. A smaller man appeared behind him, also suited but slimmer with horn-rimmed glasses. Harley didn't have to guess which one produced the cocaine and which one organized its transportation. She sighed loudly through her nose as they approached, their thugs following close behind.

"Welcome to Gotham, Mr Escabedo," Sofia purred, offering the fat one her hand.

"Mrs Falcone," Escabedo replied, his smirk growing as he shook Sofia's hand. "My wife is a big fan of yours."

"How wonderful. I adore seeing beautiful women wear my clothes," Sofia drawled, her voice a shade too droll to be sycophantic before she turned to the smaller man, offering him her hand. "Mr Penitente," she greeted him.

Penitente took Sofia's hand, but his attention was on Harley, studying her carefully. Harley ignored him, but he didn't look away even as they greeted Yuri and Boris, and then finally got to her.

"The famous Harley Quinn," Escabedo smirked, his eyes rolling over her. "I wonder what you look like under all that paint?"

"We've all got places to be and business to do," Harley said loudly, her skin crawling under his attention. "So why don't we hurry this along. You two are here for a presentation."

Escabedo turned to his partner, his chubby face wrinkling as he grinned at him. "I like her."

"We have heard many things about you, Dr Quinzel," Penitente said, eyeing her warily. "Though some of them sound too fanciful to be true."

"Why don't you judge for yourself," Harley suggested, her eyes darting over to their thugs. "Which one of these men do you trust the most?"

Escabedo and Penitente exchanged a look, then Escabedo barked an order in Spanish over his shoulder. One of the thugs stepped forward, his eyes narrowing shrewidly as he came to stand in front of Harley and Pam.

Harley glanced at Pam and could see her face was tense with anxiety. She met Harley's eye and nodded, then moved forward until she was close enough to touch the thug. She lifted her hand to his stubbled cheek and looked him in the eye, and a second later his face slackened into a lovesick smile.

Pam stepped back, her part of the presentation done, and Escabedo and Penitente frowned at each other, uncertain what they were seeing.

"Do some jumping jacks," Harley said cooly, and the thug immediately began jumping in place. "Drop and give me fifty," she added, and he hit the ground. "Get up," she snapped, and he scrambled to his feet.

"What is this! Witchcraft?" Escabedo blustered, his nostrils flaring in disbelief. His partner was staring in stunned silence, and their thugs were muttering amongst each other, looking nervous.

"Botony," Harley corrected, her lips curving into a pleased smirk now that she had them on the backfoot. She turned her attention to the thug again, narrowing her eyes. "Hit yourself in the face with your gun," she ordered.

He slammed the butt of his rifle into his face obediently.

"Harder," Harley barked, her lip curling.

He hit himself harder, breaking his nose. Blood spurted from his nostrils and ran down his face, but his expression remained serene.

 _"Harder,"_  Harley demanded, her eyes shifting to the cartel bosses, who were exchanging expletives with each other as the guard hit himself harder and rocked back on his heels, dazed. "Point your gun at Escabedo," Harley ordered with a sly smirk.

The thug raised his rifle and pointed it at Escabedo's head, and all hell broke loose. The other thugs had their weapons aimed at Harley, shouting threats in Spanish as Escabedo looked down the barrel of the gun leveled at him, and Penitente seethed at Yuri for getting them into something they hadn't agreed to.

"That's enough," Harley said coldly, and the thug lowered his weapon. She glanced at Pam and nodded, and Pam released the thug.

He staggered back and dropped his gun, his hands flying up to his face to feel his broken nose as he looked around wildly, then let loose a string of desperate Spanish words Harley couldn't understand but assumed were accusing them of witchcraft or similar.

Why did men always go straight to witchcraft?

"Cálmese, cálmese," Penitente said, remarkably calm himself as he gestured for his thugs to be silent. Then he looked at Harley and smiled. "You know, it is a rare thing to meet someone who lives up to their reputation, Dr Quinzel."

Harley ignored this comment and hitched a thumb at the thug they'd droned. "Ask him what it was like once you're back on your plane."

"How did you do that?" Escabedo demanded, squinting at Pam.

"That doesn't matter," Harley interjected. "What matters is we control every part of Gotham, and once the Lucky Hand..." she paused, steeling herself. "And the Joker are taken care of, we can return to our previous working relationship and make ourselves some fucking money. How does that sound?"

Escabedo burst out laughing while Penitente chuckled along with him, more subdued.

"Yuri, you better not get on the bad side of this one," Escabedo smirked.

"Harley loves me, don't you Harley," Yuri said smugly, though it was obviously forced bravado.

"Of course I love you, Yuri," Harley replied resentfully, her eyes lingering on the cartel bosses.

The bosses laughed again and had a quick exchange in Spanish, nodding and smirking and gesturing to Harley and Pam.

"An excellent presentation," Penitente said. "Now, you'll have to excuse us. We have business in Mexico City tonight."

Harley took this as her cue to escape and started to turn around, eager to get away from the cartel bosses and their toxic, smug masculinity.

"One moment,  _Ms_  Quinn," Escabedo called, forcing her to turn back to face him. He was grinning slyly. "How about you do me a favor as a sign of our new  _friendship."_

Harley narrowed her eyes, sensing that this wasn't going to be good. "What kind of favor?"

"A girlfriend of mine," Escabedo smirked. "She's shy and doesn't like to do anything too...  _nasty."_

Harley's stomach churned as she realized what he was asking, but she nodded quickly, not looking at Pam. Harley already knew she would be horrified.

Escabedo called over his shoulder and the giggles from the plane grew louder and more raucous. Then a girl with long gold earrings who couldn't have been older than eighteen appeared in the doorway of the plane, laughing as she teased them in rapid Spanish and stumbled drunkenly.

Harley felt dread pool in the pit of her stomach, and when she forced herself to look at Pam, she could see the strained look on her face as the girl approached, flirtatiously cooing " _Holaaaaaaa"_  at them. Pam's lips tightened like she was going to refuse, but then she set her jaw and held her hand out to the girl.

The girl giggled something suggestive as she took Pam's hand, swaying closer until the moment Pam connected with her. Then the girl stopped cold, her eyes widening, and for a moment, she looked terrified as she sucked in a shaky breath. But then, like they always did, her face relaxed into a dreamy smile, and she gazed lovingly back at Pam.

"Do whatever he says," Harley told her, feeling sick to her stomach as her eyes snapped back to Escabedo, who looked obscenely pleased with himself. There was a hungry glint in his eye as he called the girl back to his side and threw a bulky arm over her shoulders.

"A pleasure doing business with you, Harley Quinn," he smirked.

Harley didn't respond. Instead, she turned and strode back to the car with Pam on her heels while Sofia and Yuri made their more formal farewells.

Harley's hands started clenching into fists as she tortured herself over what 'nasty' things Escabedo would do to that little girl. The self-loathing from earlier returned tenfold, making her eyes sting.

"Harley," Pam said weakly, her voice full of emotion as Harley threw open the car door. "Harley, what are we doing?"

"I have no idea," Harley replied woodenly, knowing Pam was asking about more than what they were doing that night.

"I feel like everything is falling apart," Pam gasped miserably, looking around to make sure they were alone. "I  _hate_  this."

"Me too," Harley agreed, feeling something close to relief that she was able to voice the thought out loud. "I don't know how we got here."

Pam's face contorted and she moved in to hug Harley. Harley looped an arm around Pam's shoulders, letting her cling to her until they heard Sofia and Bullock coming up behind them, and she numbly pushed Pam toward the car, clambered in after her.

"Everyone friends again?" Sofia purred, looking pleased as Nikki started the car.

"Yep," Harley said frigidly. "Best friends. Right, Pam?"

Pam didn't answer. Instead, she laid her head on Harley's shoulder and took her hand where it was resting on the seat between them, holding it tight.

Harley resisted letting out a miserable sigh.

* * *

After Dinah convinced the Batman that at the very least she wasn't part of a Harley Quinn plot, he snuck her out of the MCU, giving Gordon a brief nod in the hallway outside the interrogation room. In the alley around the back of the police station it was pitch black, but when he tapped his forearm, two headlights suddenly bloomed to life. When Dinah's eyes adjusted, she realized she realized the headlights belonged to the Batpod, and the Batman was stomping toward it. He threw his leg over and gestured for her to get on behind him.

It was surreal to be on the back of a vehicle that was usually chasing her, holding onto the Batman, who she'd been fighting in the street no less than twenty-four hours earlier.

Dinah directed him to the apartment Downtown, the small one where their little clique was based during those early bank robberies and jewelry heists. When she led the Batman through the front door—letting him use some kind of electronic lock pick to get them in—he looked around incredulously. There were still duffle bags of cash stacked around the living room, money they'd never gotten around to laundering. That money had seemed so essential back then, but they'd just forgotten about it once Sofia got involved.

"I don't understand," the Batman rumbled, shoving his hand into a bag full of money and pulling out a fistful. "Why would she leave this here?"

"Getting the money into banks has always been a problem," Dinah explained. "Harley said it was because you and Harvey Dent put all the money guys away before..." She bit her lip, not wanting to say 'before you killed him.'

But the Batman knew she was thinking it, his eyes drifting from the money in his fist to Dinah.

"Until I killed Harvey," he said, his voice more human-sounding again. "How does that make me any different than her?"

This put Dinah in an awkward position. Every answer she could come up with made her sound naive or like she was replacing one murderer for another. So instead, she shook her head, refusing to answer.

"Harley doesn't care about money," she said. "She only robbed this bank to screw with Penguin. I guess she set up some kind of money laundering scheme for him with this billionaire from Ukraine." Dinah made a face, trying to remember the details. "She cares about power and control," she continued, more confidently. "Money is only a means to an end for her."

"Power," the Batman rumbled. "And chaos."

"Maybe," Dinah shook her head, exhaustion starting to take its toll on her ability to think clearly. "I always got the sense she thought the chaos part was kind of... stupid."

"You need to sleep," the Batman observed when they were in the alley around the back of the building, climbing onto the Batpod again. He sounded softer, even  _more_  human though he still kept his voice low.

"I can keep going," Dinah protested. "If we can get Sofia away from Pam, Harley will come for her."

"Not tonight," the Batman shook his head. "You can't run on adrenaline alone. It will slow you down, and that means you'll slow me down."

Dinah nodded, understanding, but now she was faced with a new problem: where she would go next.

"Can you give me a ride Uptown?" Dinah asked awkwardly. "I need to find a shelter if I'm gonna sleep tonight."

The Batman kicked his leg over the Batpod and twisted around to face her. Even beneath his cowl, Dinah could see him considering her carefully, but without suspicion. This was a softer look, more empathetic, the kind of look Harley was incapable of. It told Dinah that regardless of what had happened to Harvey Dent, the Batman was fundamentally different from her.

"Get on," he said, facing forward as the engine roared to life.

Dinah did as she was told, jumping on the back and wrapping her arms around the Batman's torso. He drove them up to Midtown, keeping to the shadows until he stopped outside a back entrance to Wayne Tower. When Dinah climbed off, he passed her a keycard from his tool belt. She looked down at it, bewildered.

"That's Wayne Tower," he said, his voice almost wholly unaffected as he pointed up at the skyscraper above from them. "That key will get you into the penthouse. The code is four-six-three-eight when you get to the top."

"The penthouse?" Dinah frowned, glancing up at him.

"Trust me," the Batman nodded.

Dinah shrugged, still confused, but jogged across the street anyway, shooting the Batman one last curious look. When she reached the lobby of Wayne Tower she pulled her hood down, not wanting to look like a street urchin to any security protecting the wealthy that lived there. She half-expected the key not to work on the penthouse elevator, but the gilded door slid open easily.

Dinah braced herself as the elevator doors opened at the top, but there was only an older man with white hair waiting for her with a kind smile.

"Ms Drake, is it?" he asked her gently. "My name is Alfred. I understand you need a hot shower and somewhere to sleep."

Dinah nodded slowly, reasoning that she could definitely take this guy, whoever he was, if she needed to.

"Nice to meet you, Alfred," she said quietly.

* * *

As they drove back through the Eastside, Pam fell asleep with her head on Harley's shoulder while Sofia made a call to Milan to discuss the September issue of Vogue, whatever that meant.

Harley pressed her face against the window and gazed out at the city rolling past. She was consumed with self-loathing over what she'd done to the girl from the plane, especially because she'd forced Pam to do it. She hadn't given Pam a choice, and now that young woman was on a plane back to Mexico City having God only knew what done to her.

Harley couldn't remember feeling this way about any of the terrible things she'd done. Not the boyfriend she killed in college. Not watching the Joker torture Walsh. Not any of the people she'd murdered simply because they got in her way. Maybe she'd felt guilty about Katarina Cassamento at the time, but now she was just one of many faces to have died by Harley's hand. Then there was Roxy, who was killed because of her friendship with Harley...

But Harley didn't regret anything she'd done, including drawing Roxy into a dangerous world that led to her violent death. Yet she deeply regretted what she'd done to that girl.

Because she hadn't  _wanted_  to do it, she hadn't had a  _choice._

Harley had given up questioning what it meant that she could take life and hurt people without feeling remorse. As she analyzed her feelings now, she knew what she was feeling wasn't really about guilt or the girl. This was about being trapped.

They were driving through Chinatown when Harley spotted a restaurant she recognized roll past. A restaurant with newspapers and menus covering the windows. She sat up quickly, making Pam slump sideways behind her.

"Nikki, pull over," she said, her hand already on the door handle, preparing to jump out.

"What's going on?" Pam asked sleepily as Nikki parked by the curb and Harley pushed her door open.

"I need to walk," Harley lied, sliding out of the car. "I need to clear my head."

"But your face is painted," Pam protested. "Are you sure it's safe?"

"I'll be fine," Harley reassured her with a pinched smile. "I'll see you back at Sofia's in a few hours."

She watched the Range Rover pull away before turning around and walking back to the Chinese restaurant, stopping at the gated door beside it. Harley looked up at the windows above the restaurant, checking for lights, but the whole building was submerged in darkness. She palmed her jacket pocket for the slew of mismatched keys she'd been carrying around in various blazers, jackets and trouser pockets until she found the small brass one she was looking for. She turned it over in her hand, wondering if there was a subconscious reason she'd been keeping it on her person for months.

The key slid into the lock easily, and she stepped into a dark, narrow hallway that smelled of mildew. She climbed a rickety flight of stairs to the second floor, and the same key fit into a door there without a number or a name. Harley held her breath as she pushed the door open and stepped inside the small studio apartment, reaching for the light switch. When the dim bulb overhead lit up and she could look around, she exhaled slowly, feeling calmer instantly.

It smelled bad. Stuffy, like no one had been there in months, and as she closed the door and locked it, Harley thought it looked the same as the first time the Joker took her there. She hadn't necessarily expected to walk in and find him waiting on the couch, but a big part of her wished that had been the case. She wanted a distraction, and there was no point denying it. She wanted him there with her.

Harley sighed and shrugged out of her jacket, tossing it over the back of the couch, the lone piece of furniture in the apartment. She kicked off her heels and unzipped Sofia's dress and threw it over the couch too, relieved to be free of the restrictive garment. She wandered into the tiny, utilitarian bathroom and smiled when she saw a hand towel covered in dried pancake makeup still dangling over the radiator.

After she washed off her warpaint, she took a step away from the sink to examine her back in the mirror. The bruise on her left shoulder blade was turning purple, and the one stretching around her ribs had darkened to a deep maroon. Then there was the one peeking over the edge of her underwear, which had faded to a sickly yellow-green. She pursed her lips, thinking her injuries looked even more grotesque against the lacey lingerie Sofia had gifted her.

Harley padded out of the bathroom and over to the small kitchenette. Like her safe house in Burnley Arms, this one was missing its essential appliances, and all that remained was a sink and a cupboard. She checked the cupboard over the sink and found a nearly-empty bottle of bourbon and a dirty glass sitting there like they were waiting for her. A smile slipped onto her lips as she poured herself a drink, feeling a fraction less miserable now that she had some space to herself and some distance from her problems.

Then she heard the scratching of a key slipping into the lock on the front door, and her body immediately tensed for a fight. She spun around as the door opened, her eyes darting to the couch as she judged the likelihood of getting to her gun before this new threat walked in.

But then the Joker stepped through the door, dressed in black jeans and a pale green button-down shirt, a garment bag slung over his shoulder. No doubt a new suit.

When he spotted Harley standing there, in her underwear no less, his eyes widened in disbelief, unprepared for her presence and unprepared to hide his surprise from her.

Harley was too stunned to do or say anything other than stare at him. His eyes rolled over her, absorbing that she was half-naked before they narrowed suspiciously and he pushed the door shut firmly behind him.

Harley tried to think of something to say, but her brain and her tongue seemed determined not to communicate with each other.

So she gave up on speaking. That wasn't what she wanted to do anyway.

She crossed the room in a few steps and threw her arms around the Joker's neck, her heart thumping hard in her chest as she pressed herself up against him. He stiffened when she slanted her mouth over his and threaded her fingers into his hair, trying to get closer, and for a horrible moment, he remained frozen, and Harley felt a tingle of fear at the base of her skull that she had massively misjudged all of this.

Then he dropped the garment bag and looped an arm around her waist, one of his hands sneaking into her hair to pull it tight as his lips parted to kiss her back. He pulled her up against him hard, making Harley whimper when his hand caught her ribs, but she didn't care. This was the distraction she had been craving so badly, and she was finally,  _finally,_  getting what she wanted.

They staggered into the middle of the room, pawing at each other as Harley tried to get his shirt off. He released her briefly to shrug out of it, and Harley's eyes darted down to his chest where there were two shiny circles of scar tissue. One below his collarbone, and one just to the left of the center of his chest. Seeing them up close sent a slew of emotions Harley couldn't identify sweeping through her, and she looked back up at him as his shirt hit the floor, her eyes wide and anxious.

He must have known what she was reacting to but didn't seem to care. There should have been a wry crack or at least a smirk, but instead, he just tugged her back to him, grabbing a handful of her hair as he kissed her again.

Harley melted into the kiss, relief coursing through her as she sighed contently, all the horrible thoughts and feelings of the past few days floating away as desire took over, making her heart beat faster and her skin grow warm.

"How much time you got," he muttered against her ear.

"A couple of hours," she breathed back, doing some slow mental math to justify how long it would take to walk back to Midtown.

He pulled back again, gripping her upper arms and tonguing his bottom lip as he looked around the room then refocused on her. Harley started to lean in again when he suddenly dropped to his knees, his hands wrapping around her hips as he tipped his head back to look up at her. Harley's lips parted in surprise as his hands slid down the backs of her legs, grazing the backs of her knees and her calves before curling around her ankles. Then he yanked her legs out from under her, making her yelp in surprise as she fell back, landing hard on the ground.

Harley groaned unhappily, the shock of hitting the floor with her bruised body nearly blinding her. But then she felt his fingers on her hips, wrestling her underwear off, and she lifted her head to watch, feeling dizzy. The Joker peeled the scrap of black lace off her ankle with a flourish and looked up at her with one eyebrow raised. That smirk she'd been expecting slid onto his lips as he spun the frilly lingerie around his index finger and let them fly off to the corner of the room.

Harley's face split into a delirious grin as her head fell back against the threadbare carpet, a quiet laugh jumping out of her throat. Then he hooked her knees over his shoulders and bent forward to run his tongue over her, and the laughter morphed into a long sigh.

The Joker smoothed a hand over her stomach as he dipped his tongue inside her, making Harley whine breathlessly, and he reached for her breast, tugging her bra out of the way so he could roughly palm it. Harley's breathing began to grow shallow as threads of pleasure unraveled inside her, and when he dipped his tongue inside her again, humming as he tasted her, she came hard, feeling like her body was about to crack in half as pleasure swallowed her whole.

She was panting, staring blindly at the ceiling as he retreated from her. Her brain was a static slush of sensation, only just registering the sounds of him kicking off his pants before he was hovering over her.

" _Hey_ ," he said, with his typical impatience, giving her cheek a light tap to get her attention. Harley rolled her eyes up to him, her eyelids heavy, and she saw him snort, looking amused. "That good, huh?" He asked, lifting her left leg over his shoulder, giving her little time to prepare herself before he thrust into her.

Harley swore quietly, her eyes rolling back in her head as she dug her fingers into the Joker's ribs. He had one hand braced beside her head, the other on her hip, pulling her up to meet him. The heat in her abdomen started to build again, and she mindlessly covered her face with her hands, grabbing a fistful of her hair until the Joker pulled her hand away and pinned it down on the carpet beside her head. She looked up at him, feeling dazed under the grim intensity of his eyes, and for the first time since he'd come back to life, she could see he was as present in the moment with her as she was with him.

But before Harley could analyze his expression further, another orgasm rocked through her body, making her arch up off the carpet, scraping her shoulder blades as her head fell back and something between a laugh and a groan escaped her throat.

The Joker pitched forward and grabbed her hair again, forcing her to face to him, and Harley watched as his eyes slid shut and a heavy breath left him before his head fell forward to land on her shoulder.

Harley didn't feel like she could move as she tried to catch her breath. Like the power to lift her limbs had been drained from her muscles entirely, and her fingertips continued to tingle.

The Joker lowered himself down onto his elbow, pushing her ankle off his shoulder, and when her leg bobbed out to the side, he frowned at it, looking a little dazed himself. Harley found the strength to lower her leg to the carpet, planting her foot beside his hip with a chuckle, and pulling the Joker's eyes back to hers. He looked her over briefly, from her face down to where they were still joined, his eyes lingering on the bruise covering her ribs. Then in an uncharacteristic show of generosity, he grabbed her hip and rolled onto his back, pulling her on top of him so she wasn't squashed beneath him.

Harley pressed her face against his neck, feeling his pulse throbbing in his throat as her own heartbeat began to slow. She wasn't sure what was happening, but she didn't particularly want to think about it beyond enjoying the hand splayed on her lower back and the thumb swiping rhythmically over her vertebra. But as her head began to clear, curiosity began to get the better of her as it so often did. She didn't feel like talking, but the need to know had been nagging her since the moment he showed up in that alleyway over a week ago. And now she was just relaxed enough to ask.

She lifted her head so she was eye level with him, and he raised his eyebrows curiously.

"What do you want?" Harley asked breathlessly, her eyes wide.

The Joker prodded his bottom lip with his tongue thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing and then softening as he considered her.

"Oh," he growled eventually, drumming his fingers against her spine. "I want  _lots_  of things."

Harley felt this non-answer was intentionally evasive, but she currently lacked the self-awareness to let it go.

"Do you want me?" She asked, realizing it was the only question that mattered once it left her lips.

" _Aww,_ " the Joker sighed, reaching up to smooth her hair off her face. "Harley... you're a human  _being_. You can't  _own_  another human being."

Harley stared at him, trying to understand what  _wanting_  her had to do with  _owning_  her. But as she replayed his words in her mind, she started to think they were significant, if only because they resonated. Of course, she wanted him, and in a physical sense, it was all too obvious it was mutual. But beyond that, what else could they want from each other? How else could they  _have_  of each other?

Harley continued to stare at him, trying to understand him just as she'd always done. He had the kind of mind she'd spent years studying, trying to understand. And then he appeared in her life like some extension of that, some final test. She couldn't tell if she was closer than ever or further away from understanding.

"And you?" When he spoke, she felt his chest rumble against hers. "What d'you want, hmm?"

That was the ultimate question, and Harley knew she was close to answering it. So close, she could almost taste it. She just didn't know how to move beyond that precipice and finally get it.  _Own_ it.

For now, she was willing to take what would satisfy her, at least for the moment.

Harley pushed herself up on her hands, eyeing the Joker warily as she shifted her legs back so her knees were between his, then she slithered down his body until she was sitting back on her heels. The Joker braced himself on his elbows to watch as she wrapped her hand around his length and folded forward. Harley met his eye when she took him into her mouth, and when she heard him release a low  _sigh_ , the concept of ownership made a little more sense, and she came closer to understanding.

* * *

Dinah slept like the dead. The bed Alfred showed her to the night before was big and soft, and that seemed to be enough for her exhaustion to win out over her wired mind.

When she finally resurfaced, the quartz clock on the bedside table said it was ten o'clock, and she felt better rested than she had in as long as she could remember. Maybe because she'd been up for days, or maybe because she was finally doing the right thing. The right thing included a lot of risk, and had led her to a strange place. Why the Batman would send her to the penthouse at Wayne Tower, she didn't know. Was it possible Bruce Wayne was a friend of his? Maybe his benefactor who paid for all the fancy gadgets? That didn't seem like a very Bruce Wayne thing to do. He was a notorious playboy and philanderer who'd burned down his family home.

Dinah pulled herself out of bed and treated herself to a shower, the first she'd had since the long, depressing one in Sofia's penthouse. That reminded her of Roxy, which brought another little pang of grief. By helping the Batman, she could put people like Harley and Victor Zsasz behind bars, and that was the best way to get justice for Roxy. It was crime and corruption that led to her death, not just the perverted actions of one man. The kind of revenge Harley wanted would only end in more death. Dinah wanted to stop it all if she could.

She pulled on a fluffy robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door and a pair of slippers laid out beside the bed. Then, not knowing what else she could do, she went in search of Alfred.

After some searching, she found a breakfast area that looked out over Gotham, but instead of Alfred there was a man she recognized from newspapers and the TV sitting at the table.

Bruce Wayne.

"Good morning, Dinah," he said, offering her an awkward smile as she stepped into the room. "Did you get some sleep?"

"Yeah—um, yes. Thank you," she said uncertainly, still not sure how Bruce Wayne factored into all of this.

"It's hard, isn't it, being uh... nocturnal," he smiled ruefully, then sighed and got to his feet, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. "But it's what we have to do."

"I don't understand," Dinah frowned. "Why did he send me here to you?"

Wayne looked down at his breakfast for a long moment, then nodded to himself and lifted his eyes to hers.

"My parents were killed by one of Carmine Falcone's thugs when I was a kid," Bruce told her, his face solemn. "At first, I wanted revenge, and I almost followed through with it. Then someone told me there's a difference between revenge and justice. Revenge is selfish. Justice is about balancing the scales. Gotham is so corrupt, I knew justice would never prevail without some outside help." He looked down, taking a breath before lifting his eyes to Dinah's again, his expression grim. "That's why I became the Batman."

Dinah's eyes widened, and she finally understood.

* * *

The rug burns on the Joker's shoulder blades and his knees and his forearms and his ass were itching something fierce, but it would be impossible to get to them with Harley half-sprawled on top of him. They had collapsed in the corner of the sofa, both of them exhausted after multiple rounds on the floor. It felt like the significant release of the constant tension  _always_  lingering between them, like steam from a pot. One thing was for sure. Harley had needed it, and so had he.

He'd slept like a baby after, for longer than he meant to, but rug burns aside the Joker felt fantastic. Harley was naked and propped up between him and the arm of the sofa, their legs tangled together on the ottoman. His arm was going numb where it was trapped beneath her, and she was snoring right in his ear. She was really going for too. He'd forgotten she was such an avid snorer, and listening to her rattle away like a freight train knowing she was completely oblivious to it made him chuckle indulgently.

She was looking a little worse for wear, her back an impressive collection of mottled bruises and scrapes, and her left wrist all swollen up. But she wasn't letting it slow her down. He hadn't bothered to be delicate with her when they were rolling around on the floor, and aside from a few reasonable winces, she hadn't complained — what a  _trooper_.

Wasn't she supposed to be somewhere?

He let his hand fall onto the splotchy bruise curving around her side, maybe some bruised ribs if she was really unlucky. He pressed his thumb against the bruise, and she made a raspy sound in the back of her throat, somewhere between a snore and a gasp. Her eyelashes scraped against his ear when her eyes opened, sending a pleasant tingle racing over his scalp.

She was still for a moment as she woke up, probably trying to remember what had happened before she fell asleep. Then she sighed and braced a hand on the Joker's chest, pausing before she lifted her head off his shoulder to look at him through sleepy eyes.

The Joker lifted one eyebrow, excited to see what she would do.

"What time is it," she asked blearily, her eyes drifting to the side as she took in her surroundings, and the Joker shrugged carelessly.

She blinked a few times sleepily, then her shoulders relaxed, and she settled back against his side, lowering her eyes thoughtfully. Giving up on trying to pretend she didn't want to be there, at least for the time being, just like she'd  _finally_  done the night before when he stepped into the apartment.

The Joker wanted to know what she was thinking about. What was that big brain wrestling with now?

She shifted her hand on his chest, revealing one of the scars from the three bullets she'd put in him. The one that hit his shoulder hadn't been too bad. He would have been up and walking around within a few days after that. The leg had gone right through. Nothing he couldn't handle. That last one though...

"One inch to the right and..." he let the sentence hang in the air, half teasing her, half tormenting her.

She stared at the scar, blinking slowly, then ran her thumb over it and looked up at him, looking like she wanted to say something.

His eyes widened eagerly. He needed to know what she wanted to say. He  _willed_  her to say it. She'd said very little the night before, but what she had said had been interesting.  _Revealing_.

She reached up to touch his hair, rubbing a few strands between her thumb and forefinger. Then a coy smirk slipped onto her lips, and the Joker knew she wasn't going to cave this time.

That was fine. Coy looked  _great_  on her.

"Why are you blonde?" She asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously, that smirk still firmly in place on her lips. Then she ran her fingertips down his chest, making him twitch. "And you're tan," she observed. "Why do you have a tan?"

He shrugged, fighting to keep his expression impassive.

"You were in Mexico, weren't you?" She accused, trying to hide that this revelation amused her, fighting another coy little smirk. "You were the one fucking with the cartels."

The Joker shrugged evasively, finding it to be a suitable response to just about everything she was asking, and she rolled her eyes, not pissed off in the slightest that he'd been behind her drug war. How interesting was that? Months and months they'd been on opposite sides of a conflict. Her trying to maintain the status quo while he smashed it to pieces, and now she knew and she didn't even care. She didn't mind creating a little chaos to mix things up. She just had a regrettable habit of thinking keeping things in order and running smoothly was her job.

Silly big brain.

Her phone started vibrating in her jacket, which was hanging over the back of the couch, drawing her attention. The Joker could see the conflict on her face and considered telling her that the phone had been ringing every twenty minutes or so since he woke up, just to see her get a little huffy.

Feeling generous, he grabbed her jacket and shoved it at her, then settled back against the couch to see what she would do next. She pulled her phone out and groaned.

"I have to go," she sighed, pushing her hair off her face. When she lifted her arm, she arched her back, pushing her chest out and drawing his eyes down to her breasts. She ran her hand through her hair again, her eyes closing as she tried to pull herself together, and the effect was simultaneously sweet and unbearably arousing.

Was she doing this on purpose?

The Joker had _forgotten_  about this side of her, this side he suspected— and hoped— only he was allowed to see.

He was tempted to grab her and throw her down on the carpet again, knowing she wouldn't stop him even if she loved to torture herself over how badly she wanted him. But then she was pushing on his chest to get to her feet, leaving him naked and alone on the couch with a rapidly growing erection that she was almost certainly not going to take care of for him if the determined misery on her face was any indication.

The Joker stared openly as she crossed the small studio to pick up her discarded underwear, deciding the curve of her spine was as attractive to him as all of her other very aesthetically pleasing qualities. Harley had a body that would have made a weaker man cry, but to the Joker, it was just icing compared to her other charms. Her ruthlessness and her fascinating brain and the many intriguing dichotomies she presented. He bit the inside of his cheek as he watched her pull on the little lacy things she'd been wearing when he showed up the night before.

When he walked into the apartment, his first instinct had been suspicion. If Harley really wanted to seduce him, it would be via some far less traditional method. Telling him she still wanted him when she thought he was rotting in a shallow grave, for example. His ego  _loved_  the idea of her waiting there dressed like that out of her own needy volition, but his brain knew it had to be a trap.

But then she'd thrown herself at him, so open and obvious about what she wanted for a change. How  _fortuitous_  that he'd stopped by to change into the new suit.

She bent down to pick up her bra, slipping her arms through the straps and hooking the clasp behind her back, then raked her hair off her face again and looked to his left. Her dress was hanging over the back of the couch beside his head, and she started edging closer, like a mouse skirting a lion. Not because she was scared of him, but because she was scared of what  _she_  might do if she got too close. It made the Joker's ego swell up like a hot air balloon, and he smirked up at her complacently.

She was  _so_  obvious.

She reached for her dress and the Joker thought,  _screw it,_  and reached for her, his palms fitting into the dip of her waist—another aesthetic delight—as he pulled her into his lap. She sent him a reproachful look but slid forward anyway, her bare knees landing beside his hips. He could feel her heat through the lace covering her, and he could imagine a lot more than that, making his arousal grow thick between her legs. She squirmed when she felt his cock pressed against her, but he kept his expression impassive, giving nothing away as she tried to do the same.

But he was better at it than she was. He couldn't understand why she even bothered to try. Why didn't she just give in to it like she wanted to?

"I have to go," she said again, shooting him a warning look that was obviously forced.

"Worried your missus is gonna think you're running around on her?" He drawled, catching her eye as he flexed his hands on her narrow waist.

"My missus?" She raised an eyebrow and braced her hands on his chest, unable to stop herself from touching him.

"Your girlfriend, uh..." He tried to remember the redhead's real name, scrolling through conversations and meetings and moments until he found it. " _Pam_."

"Pam and I are not...  _together_ ," she protested, looking bemused. The Joker knew that, but teasing her was fun. Teasing someone who terrified men twice her size yet also had the capacity to relax into this sweet little thing when she allowed herself. It made him wonder again how many people got to see her like this. Did  _Pam?_  "Wait... do people think that?" She demanded.

The Joker sighed, evasive as always, then sent her a sly smirk before dipping his index finger into her navel. He let his finger trail down her abdomen to the lace of her underwear, watching her flat stomach visibly tense as he snapped the elastic. She squirmed again, and the Joker had to employ a significant amount of self-restraint not to slip his hand between her legs where she would no doubt be fantastically wet after all that squirming and tensing. Then he could watch her eyes roll back in her head while he touched all that fantastic,  _soft,_  wetness which also  _tasted_  pretty incredible too. Maybe she'd do something different this time; she always surprised him.

"I don't think that," he said, feigning innocence, and she sent him another reproachful look that was absolutely hysterical.

"So uh, what happened anyway," he gestured to her bruises, trying not to laugh at her.

"The Batman got me," she said sourly.

The Joker's head fell back against the couch, and he groaned without meaning to, thinking she couldn't have said anything better than that.

"Ahh... You always know exactly what to say to me," he said dreamily, earning himself a shy smile. He ran his finger back and forth along the lacy edge of her underwear again, waiting for her to do something.

"You like these?" She asked, surprised, squirming because she wanted to throw caution to the wind and fuck him again. Just  _one_  last time if she wanted to tell herself that.

 _Fuck_ , he wanted to touch her. Making Harley come was a  _fascinating_  past time.

But it was no good seducing her. He wanted  _her_  to come to  _him._

He was sure she would eventually, although the how, why, where, and when eluded him, but it meant practicing self-restraint didn't taste as bitter as it usually did.

"I've got _eyes_ , don't I?" he replied flatly, not understanding how she could think he wouldn't like looking at her dressed this way. Sure, frilly underwear was a little  _obvious._  On any other woman, he wouldn't have noticed or cared. But this was Harley. She was different from every other woman. She was different from  _everyone._  With her, he noticed.  _Everything_.

He had forgotten when he was away. Because being shot and coming back to life was distracting. Even the last few weeks, he'd not fully remembered her, not with her performing her ritual of uptight, cunty self-pity, which she'd  _finally_  shed the night before. But now she was here, sitting astride him, running her nails over his chest while she smiled softly, and being just like she  _used_  to be instead of the cold, humorless bitch he'd come back to. Now he couldn't _fathom_  how he'd forgotten this fantastic little body and that big, bad brain.

"You're so funny," she smiled at him affectionately, leaning in like she was going to kiss him, and the Joker let his fingertips slip into the front of her underwear, a shiver of anticipation rolling over his shoulders.

But then she stopped, catching herself and pulling back, looking conflicted.

 _Fuck_.

She was such a glutton for punishment.

She grabbed her dress from behind his head, not making eye contact as she clambered off him and turned around, stepping into her dress and zipping it up. Then she turned back for her jacket and the holster sporting a gun that looked remarkably like the Joker's old favorite.

"I'll see you around," she said warily, offering him a weak smile before she turned to leave.

He hung his head back over the couch once she was gone, sighing.

Usually, the Joker never questioned himself. But now he was thinking maybe he should have answered that question about what he wanted after all. It would have been interesting to see what she'd do about it if she knew.

* * *

**A/N: Now _that's_  a personal moment.**

**I can confirm that's the end of the Dinah subplot, though obviously that partnership will have some consequences for Harley.**

**Five chapters left, you guys.**

**Next: Everything burns.**

**Please comment & review :D**


	28. Chapter 28

The Harlequin

28.

* * *

Harley stepped out onto the streets of Chinatown, the August sun baking hot as she turned her face up to it. She felt...  _amazing_.

Not physically. Almost every part of her body was aching, from her lingering Batman injuries to all the tender places the Joker had been especially  _enthusiastic_  about the night before. But it was a good ache, and her mind felt lighter than it had in a long time.

That she felt so light because she'd spent the night with the Joker was not ideal, but Harley decided not to let that bother her for the time being. Cognitive dissonance was her friend as she started down the street with a bounce in her step. She would have liked to walk back to Midtown, but she already had twenty missed calls from Pam, and her phone was buzzing urgently in her pocket again, so she opted to take the metro instead.

Her mind drifted back to the Joker as she sat on the train, swaying with the motion of the graffiti-strewn carriage. He did not give a  _shit_  in the slightest, and he was completely free because of it. Harley wasn't sure she was capable of that kind of freedom; she did tend to put herself in situations that inevitably made her feel trapped and miserable. Arkham. Penguin. Now her responsibilities to Sofia. She took a moment to try to plot a course backward to understand how each of those had come to be, the choices she made to end up unhappy and stuck and powerless to get out, and all she could come up with was that each venture had started with an attempt to  _build_  something for herself.

Maybe  _building_  was the wrong way to go about it.

Maybe she could take care of the Lucky Hand for Sofia and make a graceful exit. Without the Hand, Sofia could run the city just like her father had before her. He hadn't had any drones. Sofia didn't need Harley and Pam to be the Queen of Gotham. Granted, her father's world had been a world without the Joker...

Then what would Harley do? Leave Gotham with Pam? Start fresh somewhere? That was the logical choice, but there was the nagging fact that leaving Gotham meant leaving the Joker behind, too, and that thought made Harley's mood deflate significantly.

No. She wasn't thinking about that.

Ohhhhh, he was  _so_  complicated. All it had taken were two terrible days and one  _great_  night for Harley to find that dreadful  _giddiness_  he inspired in her again. That giddiness was back in full force, just like it has been in the days before he locked her in the honeymoon suite. The problem now was the same as it had been then. Whatever this thing between them was, it wasn't sustainable beyond brief moments like the ones they'd shared that morning and the night before. What else could they possibly have but moments? He was wild and chaotic and free, and none of those qualities could be reconciled with anything  _permanent._

Sometimes when she was with him, Harley felt like she could siphon off some of that reckless freedom that came so naturally to him. It allowed him to do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted, and she was  _jealous_  of how easy he found it to live that way. The prospect of entirely giving herself over to that mentality seemed impossible, but at least she could get a taste of it when she was with him.

The metro arrived at Wayne Tower, and Harley climbed off, blending in with the crowd of men and women heading to their bank jobs, just as she used to do when she lived her normal pedestrian life.

She took the private elevator up to Sofia's penthouse and headed for the kitchen, her stomach rumbling after not eating anything substantial for far too long. She found Pam there with Leo Ling and Sofia's two sons. They were wearing their school uniforms and chowing down on what looked like health food for children while their nanny, a drone, packed their lunches.

"Bonjourno, little friends," Harley chirped to the boys, slinging herself up on a stool beside them at the breakfast bar and grinning as she helped herself to a handful of candy from a decorative dish.

"You're in a good mood," Pam observed, a little suspiciously, but still happy that Harley was happy. "Leo, can you make Harley something  _substantial_  to eat?" She called over her shoulder, and Leo jumped to attention.

"What have you got against candy, huh Pam?" Harley teased, turning to the boys. "Don't trust _anyone_  who doesn't like candy," she advised them, widening her eyes and making them laugh.

"Where did you go last night?" Pam asked as the boys' nanny zipped up their backpacks and escorted them out the door. "We were worried."

"Yeah, I saw your missed calls," Harley smirked, stretching her aching arms over her head and closing her eyes. "I finally got a good night's sleep," she added, not directly answering Pam's question.

"I couldn't sleep," Pam said darkly. "Not after... that."

Harley sighed, trying to figure out how to make Pam feel better about the little girl they'd turned into a sex slave for a Columbian drug lord. She stood to shrug out of her jacket and unzip the back of her too-tight dress so she could breathe a little easier, then hopped back on the stool and accepted a plate piled high with eggs and toast from Leo.

"I think we need to figure out what we're going to do next," Harley said, hoping that looking forward would stop Pam from dwelling on what was behind them.

But Pam's face had darkened, her eyes narrowed, and she was staring at Harley's throat where the neck of her dress was drooping down now that it was unzipped and hanging loose.

Harley resisted the self-conscious urge to touch her neck when a particularly potent memory smacked her in the face and made her pulse leap. The Joker's mouth on her throat, his fingers digging into her waist as she pulled his hair and tightened her legs around him.

"Why do you have a hickey?" Pam asked coldly, lifting her eyes to Harley's briefly before they diverted down to Harley's knees. "Are those  _rug burns_?"

"Uh..." Harley found herself at a loss for words, and all she could think to do was run like a coward. Then she did the worst possible thing she could have done. She laughed.

_"Harley_ ," Pam gasped, looking horrified. "Are you  _sleeping_  with him again?"

"Jesus, Pam," Harley adjusted her legs so at least the  _rug burns_  weren't staring Pam in the face. The appropriate response should have been contrition because sleeping with the enemy was bad and would make Pam's trust in her waver. But Harley didn't feel the slightest bit of regret over it. And she didn't want to lie.

"I ran into him last night," she admitted, meeting Pam's eye to show she was being honest, which was surely worth something. "I was upset, and he was there to distract me and help me... clear my head." She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, fighting a smile that would have made Pam go nuclear.

"Has this happened before?" Pam hissed, and Harley knew she meant the last time she'd disappeared, wanting to know if Harley had lied.

"Not _that_  time," Harley countered, successfully keeping her expression sober.

" _Other_  times?" Pam's eyes narrowed, and Harley felt a sudden spasm of anger that she was acting so  _possessive_.

"I'm a grown woman," Harley snapped, the tension in the kitchen picking up a notch. "Why does this bother you so much? It's not like we talk about  _work_  while we're in bed." She threw up her hands, feeling this to be the most ridiculous thing anyone had ever said about the Joker, ever. Not to mention, there hadn't been a bed present the last two times. "I'm not telling him our secrets, or giving him leverage or—"

"I'm not worried about you telling him our secrets! I'm worried because he's a terrorist!" Pam exploded, jumping to her feet. "I'm worried about him hurting you or killing you! You have _bruises_  after one night with him. He sucks you in, and you just run after him like some kind of-of-"

" _Victim_?" Harley supplied, another spasm of anger rolling through her as she finally understood what Pam thought. "Some weak, helpless, easily manipulated victim? Is that what you're getting at, Pam? That's what you think about me?"

Pam pursed her lips and looked away. "You lied to me," she scowled.

"No, I didn't," Harley countered fiercely. "I purposefully did not tell you something I knew would upset you—something I do for you all the time whether you like it or not. Just because you can't understand the complexities of my  _relationship_  with him doesn't mean I'm being manipulated. It's...  _complicated._ "

"It's  _complicated_?" Pam raged incredulously. " _Relationship_? Harley, have you lost your fucking mind?"

Harley threw her hands up in frustration, wanting to scream. Pam was forcing her to confront many realities she didn't want to face, specifically, the impossibility of a  _relationship_  with the Joker. Harley wanted to throw her hands over her ears and refuse to listen.

"Pam," Harley said, sounding pained as she pressed her palm to her forehead. "I just said we need to talk about our next move. What are we going to do next? You are my partner and—"

_"I'm_  your partner," Pam countered, looking offended. "Your sidekick, maybe? Fine, I'll take it. But you can't be partners with me  _and_  him at the same time!"

"Bloody hell," Sofia appeared beneath the arch leading into the living room, looking between Pam and Harley with an inscrutable expression on her face. "Are you two fighting again?"

Pam screamed. A siren-like wail that made Harley take a step back. She felt the hairs on the back of her arms stand up as if the room had filled with static electricity, and her eyes widened as Pam screwed up her face and shook her head like she was furiously trying to clear it. Then she stormed past Sofia, heading for the staircase.

Sofia watched her go before rotating back around to face Harley, her normally hooded eyes wide with surprise.

"Christ," she said, looking stunned.

Harley flung herself back down on the barstool, covering her face with her hands and groaning. She remained in that position, trying to think of some way to solve this problem with Pam. The best answer was still to express regret, but that wasn't going to happen. The second-best answer was to get Pam out of Gotham immediately and show her she was serious about being her partner, not the Joker's. But that wasn't going to happen either.

She heard Sofia's stilettos approach, and then the other woman was sitting on the stool beside her. Harley removed her hands from her face and let her head fall back, rolling her eyes toward Sofia miserably.

"So, you let Pretty Boy get into your knickers again, did you?" Sofia asked wryly, lifting a suggestive eyebrow at the hickey on Harley's throat. When Harley just sighed, she continued. "I can't say I blame you. There's something appealingly...  _filthy_  about him when he's not dressed like a clown."

Harley nodded slowly, amazed that Sofia had hit the nail on the head so perfectly, and glad she wasn't being as judgemental as Pam.

"Well, I hate to put this on you when you're not having a good day," Sofia continued, sounding only vaguely like she regretted what she was about to say. "But, I need to talk to you about the cartels."

Harley covered her face with her hands and braced her elbows on the bar top, wishing a black hole would appear behind her to swallow her up and spit her out anywhere else in the world so long as it was a place where she wasn't involved in mob politics.

"What," she said, the word muffled by her hands, and she heard Sofia chuckle.

"The bosses don't want us to destroy the Lucky Hand. They want us to make a deal with them," Sofia said crisply, and when Harley turned to stare at her in disbelief, she nodded once to confirm she was serious. "I must say, I agree. This war has gone on long enough, and it's time things stabilize. The best way to make that happen is to make a deal. A  _proper_ deal this time."

Harley thought the proposition over, considering that the Hand were over a barrel and had no other choice. They would be idiots not to take a deal that was preferential to them.

She nodded, acknowledging that this was the best way. But then something occurred to her.

"What about the Joker?"

"Well, they want us to kill him," Sofia said offhandedly, shooting Harley a smirk. "But here's a better idea. I think you'll like it."

"What kind of idea?" Harley sat up, intrigued.

"You convince him to back off and not rock the boat once the deal is done," Sofia said. "That way, we don't have to kill him. He doesn't have to work for us or choose a side. He just needs to not stir up trouble for our business. And then you two can be together or however you want to describe it."

Harley's eyes widened as she realized what Sofia was proposing, and she threw back her head and laughed.

"I am not going to be able to convince him not to rock the boat," she chuckled, shaking her head. "He  _lives_  to rock the boat."

"Why not?" Sofia replied primly. "He got down on his knees and begged me to help get you back. I would never,  _ever_  have expected that from him, and I have known him a very long time and seen how he is with women. He may be too damn stubborn to acknowledge it, but the truth is you have a hold on him, Harley."

Harley felt lost as she tried to comprehend what Sofia was suggesting.

"Why would he listen to me?" she started tentatively. "He doesn't listen to anyone."

"Marty knows him better than anyone," Sofia shrugged. "When he thought the Joker was dead, he told me he had  _valued_  your advice. Didn't you notice a difference between those attacks at Thanksgiving and the ones last summer? They were  _subtle_. Still incredibly unnecessary, of course, but so long as he isn't attacking our business, I don't particularly care what he does to the rest of the city."

Sofia got to her feet, smiling gently as Harley tried to digest what she was saying.

"What about Pam?" Harley frowned. "Pam hates him."

"Pam will come around," Sofia shrugged. "I'll speak to her. Why don't you give it a try with Pretty Boy. What's the worst that could happen? You have to shoot him again?"

Harley groaned and buried her face in her arms.

* * *

Bruce was deeply out of his element. Mobsters, terrorists, petty criminals, squads of assassins; those were all within his remit as the Batman. But inviting a teenage girl into all of this? That was a new and unusual level of discomfort for him.

When Dinah came to Bruce with information on Harley Quinn, he decided to hear her out, the determined gleam in her eye telling him she would go after Harley with or without his help. But what she had to say was far more valuable than he could have imagined.

The Joker hadn't been seen in months, disappearing after his attacks before Thanksgiving. That left Bruce with the mob's traditional antics and Harley Quinn to deal with, and as far as he could tell, Harley was more interested in making money than crafting chaos. But he had been wrong on all counts.

Thanks to Dinah, Bruce now knew the Joker disappeared because Harley almost killed him. Now, thanks to Dinah, he knew the Joker was back in Gotham. Thanks to Dinah, Bruce was aware of just how short on time they were. Dinah was convinced it wouldn't be long before these two violent psychopaths teamed up and brought the city to its knees, and she was right about how dangerous the Joker would be with Harley Quinn helping him. They needed to get ahead of them both before that happened.

It was this desperation to get ahead of the Joker, and not wanting to let Dinah, with her valuable insight, disappear into the streets, that led Bruce to give her a place to sleep the night they met.

Alfred thought he was insane to invite her in. "Are we turning the penthouse into a shelter for strays now, sir?" He'd asked drily when Bruce arrived later that evening.

Bruce showered and changed into civilian clothes, then sat up the rest of the night waiting for dawn to approach, contemplating his next move.

Dinah wasn't a copy cat with a gun and a taste for glory. Dinah craved justice and redemption; a potent combination Bruce was intimately familiar with. She was a fierce fighter, skilled and scrappy, and more than once she'd bested him while she'd been protecting Harley. More times than Bruce would like to admit.

He thought back to his training with Ra's al Ghul and the League of Shadows; not just learning to be a warrior, but adopting the tools of theatricality and deception. They were the same tools that made the Joker such a destructive and nebulous force, in part, because he had outpaced Bruce at his own game. And now with Harley in the mix, there were two of them.

The obvious choice was to debrief Dinah, to learn what she knew and send her somewhere safe. Maybe somewhere abroad, making sure she had enough money and security to live a happy life. But after Bruce revealed his identity to her, and she'd taken a seat across from him at the breakfast table, her young face more grim and severe than any child deserved to be, Bruce quickly realized he was embarking on something completely different.

Then Alfred joined them, his hands clasped in front of him, his face composed in professional interest.

"And would you prefer Frosted Flakes or Cap'n Crunch, Ms Drake?" He asked, a twinkle in his eye.

"Ignore him," Bruce advised, his lips twitching into a smile.

But Dinah's face had only grown more severe, as if their situation was so perilous there was no time for levity.

"What can I do to help?" She demanded, fixing Bruce with a steely gaze.

"Alfred, could you give us a minute," Bruce requested, shooting Alfred a loaded look, prompting him to disappear into the kitchen, muttering under his breath but leaving them to discuss the Joker.

"Harley is the best way to get to the Joker," Dinah announced decisively. "But I can't emphasize enough that you shouldn't underestimate her."

"So how do we get to her?" Bruce asked, bracing his elbows on the table and leaning in.

"Sofia Falcone and Pamela Isley," Dinah replied. "Pam's too powerful, so you have to get Sophia away from her. But if we can get Sofia alone, then Harley will come for her."

Bruce pursed his lips, thinking her suggestion over. "We can't use Sofia Falcone as bait without something legitimate to back it up."

"Why not?" Dinah sat back, looking unimpressed. "She runs the mob. She's not a good person. When Harley comes for her, we can take her down. She can't take us both on at once."

"Because that would make us no better than them," Bruce explained gently. "And it will only result in one more street fight Harley may or may not be able to wiggle her way out of. We have to do something smart to draw her out,  _and_  make sure Sofia Falcone ends up behind bars where she belongs."

Dinah's mouth hardened into a line, and she looked down at the empty plate on the table in front of her, thinking hard. Then her head snapped up, her brown eyes wide.

"The Oligarch," she said. "He'll have information on Sofia."

Bruce frowned, remembering her comment about a money-laundering scheme from the night before. "Do you know this person's name?"

"No," Dinah shook her head, her gaze intense. "But all of the mob's money is tied up with this guy right now. If we can find out who he is, we can get him back to Gotham just like you did with that Lau guy last year. Then he can help us bring down Sofia, and Sofia can get us Harley."

Bruce's eyes widened, something hopeful pulsing through him for the first time in a long, long time.

"That's a good start," he agreed. "How do we find out the Oligarch's name?"

Dinah lifted one eyebrow. "How do you find out anything in Gotham?"

She was worldly enough to know this meant 'talking' to dirty cops at the docks and muscle-for-hire down back alleys, and it became clear then, that Dinah was not about to let herself be shaken off during this crucial fact-finding step. She intended to make herself part of this fight with or without Bruce's consent. And with this in mind, and the knowledge that a partner like Dinah was just the sort of twist Ra's al Ghul would have recommended, Bruce brought Dinah to the basement of Wayne Enterprises to meet Lucius Fox.

"This is Dinah Drake," Bruce explained, watching Lucius's eyebrows raise appraisingly as Dinah stared grimly back at him. "She's going to help me with some... spelunking," Bruce added, fighting back a smile when Dinah's eyes darted to him. One of her eyebrows jumped up incredulously, the first sign of a personality beneath all that severity she'd been projecting non-stop.

"Alright, Mr Wayne," Lucius agreed mildly, before turning his attention to Dinah. "Ms Drake," he said, offering a knowing smile. "Let's see if we can't find you some fancy new toys."

* * *

It took a week of negotiating to set up the deal. A week of boring haggling over percentages and cutting rates and taxes and laundering concerns and Leo Ling, Boss Ling's only living son who had been acting as an in-house chef for Sofia, Harley, and Pam for months.

Harley met Sofia's lawyer, Rupert Thorne, who had been one of her father's lawyers before he was locked up in Arkham. Thorne had a big belly and full head of white hair, the smell of cigar smoke continually clinging to him. He didn't say much, just took notes and nodded while Sofia talked. Harley wasn't used to dealing with lawyers to make deals, but she supposed it was a good thing. That meant it was real.

And if the deal happened, Harley was free to do whatever she —and Pam —wanted to do. That could mean leaving, that could mean staying. Whatever it was, it needed to be different.

It needed to be  _more._

Pam had yet to cool down, even days later, no matter how nicely Harley tried to engage her.

"Are you going to be mad at me forever?" Harley asked, leaning against the door to the guest room Pam was staying in.

"Are you going to sleep with the Joker again?" Pam replied caustically, not looking up from her laptop.

Harley sighed as she crossed the prettily-decorated room to flop down on the bed beside Pam. She propped herself up on her elbow and tried to make herself comfortable as she examined her left wrist, which was still weak from her last encounter with the Batman.

"Are you jealous?" she asked Pam.

Pam shot her an incredulous look. "What do you mean, jealous? That you have an attachment to that psychopath?"

"First, thank you for not insinuating I'm a victim. That feels like we're getting closer to compromise," Harley said diplomatically, chuckling under Pam's withering stare. "Second, uh... no, I mean like, are you jealous of _him_."

Pam narrowed her eyes until she was squinting at Harley. "You're insane," she said tersely.

"Fine," Harley sighed, thinking about Sofia's suggestion that she convince the Joker to be her boyfriend and do what she wanted. It was outrageously fanciful, but she wasn't sure it  _wasn't_  worth trying. She wanted to run it past Pam, but Pam was obviously against having him within a thousand miles of her, let alone anything closer.

"You've never even met him," Harley pointed out. "Or spoken to him."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Pam shook her head.

"It means maybe you don't know him as well as you think you do," Harley countered.

Pam wrinkled her nose, her face a hilarious cross between bewildered and disgusted. Harley chuckled and scooted closer.

"Why are we even discussing this?" Pam wanted to know, frowning at Harley. "What have you got up your sleeve?"

"Nothing," Harley said evasively, tracing one of the flowers printed on the bedspread. "Sofia says he listens to me."

"Everyone listens to you," Pam pointed out. "You have good ideas. You're a leader."

"But I'm the  _only_  person he listens to," Harley pressed, cringing because she knew it sounded delusional.

"Okay," Pam sighed, setting her laptop aside and turning to face Harley fully. "Tell me how you see this panning out. Is he going to be your boyfriend? Are you going to join his gang of clowns, or will he come work for Sofia? Do you think you'll be able to talk him out of taking the city hostage again?"

Harley bit her lip, her eyes rolling from side to side thoughtfully.

"Can't I worry about all that later?" She winced, and Pam snorted incredulously.

_"No_ ," she said meaningfully, giving Harley's shoulder a gentle push. Harley pretended to fly backward like she'd been shoved hard, hissing when she landed on her left hand, sending pain spiking through her sprained wrist though she passed it off as a chuckle.

Pam shook her head, smiling despite her objections.

So things weren't perfect with Pam, but at least she was talking to Harley again, and Harley felt she'd quite significantly come around to the idea that her relationship with the Joker was less victim and psychopath and more... violent criminal and psychopath sharing a connection that couldn't be easily explained. Progress.

But that progress meant nothing without the Joker. Harley was pining for him hard, and regardless of what Sofia said, she could not fathom a world where he agreed to be her  _boyfriend_. It was an absurd concept on its own—and Harley was hardly the  _girlfriend_  type—let alone a hypothetical scenario where he might opt out of ripping apart the city once he was prepared to do so, simply because Harley asked nicely. No  _way._

She wasn't even sure she would  _want_  him to stop.

When she'd asked him what he wanted, he had evaded the question, either out of stubbornness or secretiveness or because saying,  _'sorry sweetheart, I'm not interested in anything serious right now'_  threatened to put an end to the occasional sex he was obviously a fan of.

Sofia had put this idea in her head, the idea of something  _real_  with him, but Harley just couldn't see it. Not intellectually and not emotionally, either.

* * *

Finally, after a week of sitting around Sofia's penthouse, it was time for the final meeting where Sofia and the Hand bosses would shake hands and exchange pleasantries, and they would all be friends under the banner of Sofia Falcone's Crime Family. Harley had grown so antsy sitting around waiting all week she was almost vibrating as she got ready, painting her face and donning a fresh suit. She added a bow tie courtesy of Vito, feeling she needed something a little different that night.

The meeting was set to take place on the top floor of an abandoned parking garage in the Bowery. Nikki drove Harley, Pam, and Sofia in one big black four-by-four while Sasha and four Odessa thugs followed in another. As they drove through Gotham's Eastside Harley drummed her fingers on her knees, trying to tamp down the nervous energy crackling through her.

She didn't know what was going to happen. That was what it boiled down to; she had no plan after that night. It didn't have to be that way; she had a place at Sofia's side as long as she wanted it. But Harley was done with mob politics, and it was time for a change. A change to what, she still didn't know.

Once all the showy virtue signaling with the Lucky Hand was done, and they were back at Sofia's penthouse, she and Pam would sit down and make a plan. Maybe Pam had an idea of where they could go and what they could do. They had never gotten around to using her powers for good. There were senators voting against climate change policy who could do with a healthy dose of Pam in their lives.

But Harley also had a picture in her mind that refused to leave her. The Joker smirking at her as she'd gotten ready to leave him at his safehouse in Chinatown. Tempting her to stay, tempting her to stay with  _him_ , if only for a few more minutes, maybe even hours. Not days, not weeks, not forever. She was clinging to that picture now, trying to define it and make it fit in with everything happening around her. But even as she clung to it, she knew for sure that the fantasy Sofia had planted in her brain was nothing more than that: a fantasy.

They pulled into the parking structure, a four-story concrete spiral lit by fluorescent lights. As they drove to the top, Harley re-checked the magazine on her gun so she had something to do with her hands. The Joker would be up there, she was almost sure of it, and she was nervous about facing him.

She was excited too.

Nikki pulled up behind the car full of Odessas. There were two more black SUVs almost identical to theirs already waiting, all four cars parked in a loose circle at the top of the parking garage. The Odessa thugs and four Lucky Hand guards climbed out of their cars, facing off with each other as the Hand bosses began to join them. Harley's stomach twisted anxiously as she pushed her door open and stepped out, taking a breath to clear her head before she joined Sofia and Pam.

Her eyes drifted over the Lucky Hand bosses, memorizing their faces for no reason other than she didn't want to look at the Joker, who stood off to the side. She could feel him there, even as she refused to look at him.

"Isn't this lovely," Sofia said, offering the Hand bosses a pinched smile. "All of us together, being friends."

"Where is my son?" Boss Ling demanded, flicking the butt of a cigarette away.

"At home with my children," Sofia replied breezily. "He's an excellent chef. We'll send him home once all of this is over."

Boss Ling glowered at Sofia but said nothing. They were over a barrel and had no choice but to do what she and her lawyers dictated.

"I mean this sincerely," Sofia said, stepping forward to offer her hand to Ling. "I am so glad to be working with you all. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful—"

There was a whirring sound beneath them, cutting Sofia off as it grew progressively louder. Harley's eyes darted to the Joker, and for once, she got precisely what she was expecting from him: a lazy smirk as he waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Then he produced a tire iron from the depths of his lurid purple coat, swinging it like a golf club. He may or may not have led the Batman straight to them this time, but he was definitely going to enjoy it.

"What is that?" Sofia asked, looking bewildered as the whirring sound grew louder.

"The Batman," Pam announced, her face strained.

Harley pulled her gun and darted to the edge of the parking structure, looking down in time to see a black streak making its way up the concrete spiral.

"Get back in the car," Harley snapped at Pam and Sofia, who exchanged a look before doing as they were told. The Bosses went scrambling for their car too, but then an engine roared, and a huge black tank smashed through the side of the parking structure.

Harley's eyes widened as she watched the Tumbler crash past the Odessas' car and come to a sudden stop, rocking on its wheels. There was a zip of orange before it fired a shot, giving Sofia and Pam just enough time to dive out of the way before Sofia's car burst into flames.

The Joker released a peel of shrill, hysterical laughter as panic erupted around them. The Hand bosses managed to take shelter in their car while their guards rushed the tank with the Joker. Not knowing what else to do, Harley joined them, though she was in no shape to fight with her wrist sprained and her body still healing after her last encounter with the Batman.

She pushed past the Lucky Hand's guards and pointed her gun at the hatch on top of the Tumbler.

"Ah, ta, ta, ta," the Joker sang, drawing her attention. He was standing just a few feet away, the tire iron swinging in his left hand while he calmly pointed a gun at her with this right. "Don't even think about, sweetheart," he drawled lazily.

Frustration swept through Harley, making her scalp tingle and her lips purse, not least because she _loathed_  it when he used impersonal pet names on her as an intentional dig. The whirring below them grew louder as the hatch opened, but instead of the Batman, a smaller, leaner figure appeared, taking a flying leap off the side of the Tumbler and landing soundly on the concrete. It was a girl, dressed all in black and outfitted with a Kevlar vest. Her face was obscured with a cowl like the Batman's, but without the pointed bat ears. Her hands and forearms covered in gloves made from the same rubbery material as the Batman's suit, and around her waist, she wore a tool belt holding two foot-long batons issuing fissures of blue electricity.

Stunned by what she was seeing, Harley took a step back and lowered her weapon. She heard the Joker snarl in frustration as he stormed away, ostensibly because if it wasn't the Batman, he wasn't interested. Then the Hand's guards stepped in, rushing past Harley to attack the masked girl.

She pulled the two batons from her tool belt and cracked them together to create a shower of blue sparks, then leaped forward to greet them.

"Pam!" Harley called over her shoulder, not daring to look away as the girl disarmed two of the Hand's guards and started on a third. "Get Sofia out of here!"

The Batpod arrived then, but its noisy whirring was quickly cut off by a metallic  ** _CLANG_**  that reverberated through the entire parking structure. Harley spun around to see the Batpod skidding across the floor on its side while the Batman clung on. It slammed into one of the abandoned cars, and the Joker jumped on top of the Batman, the Odessa thugs joining him. Without the Batpod blocking the exit, the Hand bosses escaped in the last functioning car, its tires squealing as they took off down the concrete spiral.

Harley looked around frantically for Pam and Sofia, hoping they'd escaped when she felt a presence on her back. Steeling herself, she turned just in time to take a punch to the face before her gun was kicked out of her hand. Harley stumbled back a few steps as the masked girl advanced on her, forcing Harley to duck and block and dance backward until the masked girl kicked her in the chest, sending her flying. Harley landed on the ground hard, wheezing as she tried to move past the shock of hitting the concrete.

The Batman and the Joker were fighting some twenty feet away, surrounded by unconscious Odessas, but the masked girl ignored them. Instead, she headed straight for Pam and Sofia, where they were hiding behind a wrecked car.

That's what they were there for, Harley realized. For Pam or Sofia.

Gritting her teeth, she rolled onto her stomach and pushed herself to her feet.

" _Hey!"_  Harley barked, stomping after the masked girl before she could reach her friends.

The girl paused before turning back around to face Harley, wielding the two fizzing batons. Harley blocked one from hitting her in the side of the head only to receive an electric shock that ran up her arm and across her chest. She shrieked in surprise and didn't block the next three hits, each one zapping her with a few harsh volts of electricity that made the air smell like burnt hair.

Harley collapsed onto her hands and knees, and something in her injured wrist  _snapped_ under her weight, making her hiss and sputter helplessly.

Satisfied that Harley was immobilized, the masked girl turned her attention back to Pam and Sofia, and this time Pam jumped into action, barring her way to Sofia, who was sitting with her back up against the concrete wall, looking stunned.

"That's far enough!" Pam snapped, her eyes narrowing dangerously even though she was unarmed, and her drones were unconscious.

The masked girl hesitated then tucked her batons back into her belt.

"I don't want to hurt you," she said, her voice a low hiss, but before Pam could reply, the girl dove forward, kicking Pam's legs out from under her, making her yelp as she fell on her ass.

"What the bloody hell are you doing!" Sofia shrieked as the girl ducked down beside her.

Harley didn't see what happened next, but when she looked up, the masked girl was rushing across the garage with an unconscious Sofia hanging over her shoulder. Harley's whole body was weak and rubbery from being tased, but she still managed to push herself up to her knees in time to watch helplessly as the masked girl and Sofia disappeared inside the Tumbler. Its hatch slammed shut, and the tank quickly reversed out of the hole it had appeared through, leaving Harley staring at the open space in the concrete, not quite accepting what had happened.

"We have to get out of here," Pam said, helping Harley her sit back on her heels, and Harley nodded, swallowing a lump in her throat as she tried to make a plan.  _Any_  plan.

The Joker's laughter ricocheted around them. He had the upper hand on the Batman, who was now sprawled on the floor looking dazed.

"I have an idea," Pam said suddenly, releasing Harley's arm as she rose to her feet.

"Wait," Harley protested weakly, swaying before she fell forward, catching herself on her good hand. She dropped down to her elbow, craning her head up in time to see Pam striding up to the Joker purposefully. "Pam, wait," she said again.

"Well,  _hello_ ," the Joker drawled, smirking as he planted one foot on the Batman's chest. "If it isn't the famous  _Pam._ "

"I can control him," Pam said, her eyes darting from the Batman to the Joker as she edged closer. "I can make him do  _anything_  you want."

The smirk on the Joker's face promptly evaporated, replaced with a sour look as he prodded his bottom lip with his tongue. He slipped a hand into his jacket, casually retrieving what looked like a filleting knife, which he spun between two gloved fingers as he watched Pam move closer.

"Just think, in your next broadcast to Gotham, you could have the Batman deliver it," Pam continued. "The  _real_  Batman this time," she added slyly.

The Joker's head tipped to the side, his eyes narrowing, and from where she was kneeling, Harley couldn't tell if he was actually considering what Pam was suggesting. She couldn't imagine he was. Controlling the Batman was tantamount to cheating in his book. It wouldn't be  _satisfying_.

"Pam, wait..." Harley protested, forcing herself to sit up.

"Isn't that what you do? Control people?" Pam continued, her voice taking on a bitter note. She took one last step so she was standing over the Batman, the Joker looming over both of them, his foot still braced on the Batman's chest. "Turn them into your puppets," Pam spat. "Make them act against their interests to  _serve_  you."

She dropped into a squat beside the Batman, her attention still focused on the Joker as he squinting down at her curiously. Then she started to reach for the Batman's face.

" _Hang_  on there, Red," the Joker stopped her, a lazy smile working its way onto his butchered lips. "You've got me  _all_  wrong. I don't  _control_  people. Maybe I uh...  _inspire_  them."

"Like you  _inspired_  Harley," Pam shot back, her eyes on the filleting knife, but her hand still outstretched, inches away from the Batman.

"Ohhh,  _that_  old chestnut," the Joker hummed, one eyebrow jutting up. "Let's set the record straight, huh? Apart from not knowing how to dress herself and a penchant for following the  _rules_ , Harley here was just as  _rotten_  the day I met her as she is today.  _I_  had nothing to do with it. Oh, you got it  _all_  wrong, Red."

Pam's nostrils flared, and her lip curled as if hearing this unfortunate truth about Harley made her hate the Joker more than she already did. She glared up at him, and he stared back at her, his eyebrows raised with vague interest. He was daring Pam to use her powers, and Pam was daring the Joker to make a move to stop her.

Harley struggled to her feet with a grunt, and she opened her mouth to tell them to  _stop_  when Pam slapped her hand down on the Batman's face. The Joker lunged forward, brandishing the filleting knife, but

Pam caught his wrist where his jacket rode up and his glove ended, stopping him just inches shy of slitting her throat. She rose to her feet, her chin raised imperiously, her eyes blazing.

"Pam!" Harley cried out, staggering forward as the Joker dropped to his knees, snarling and blinking rapidly. "Pam,  _stop it!"_

Harley scrambled to pick up her gun before she limped over to them, stumbling to a stop when the Batman suddenly jumped to his feet like a current of electricity was rushing through him, forcing him into action.

Harley pointed her gun at the Batman as he stomped toward the Batpod like a man possessed, ignoring what was happening around him, but an inhuman snarl made her spin back around, her heart sinking. The Joker was on his knees and Pam was standing over him, her face twisted in an ugly grimace as she attempted to control him. He was fighting it but not without some difficulty, that lack of gray matter finally doing him some good as he bared his teeth and growled like a wild animal.

"Pam, stop it!" Harley cried desperately, suddenly terrified that Pam might  _actually_  drive him insane.

She grabbed Pam's arm, pleading with her to stop, but Pam was either too wrapped up in her powers or ignoring her outright. Then the Joker started giggling, his eyes rolling back in his head, and Harley felt blind panic start to rise up in her throat.

She pointed her gun at Pam's head, breathing hard through her nose, and Pam finally acknowledged her.

"I knew it," she sneered, her green eyes glowing with betrayal.

"Let him go," Harley spat, her voice thick.

"He will get you killed, Harley!" Pam snapped. "You know he will!"

Harley couldn't find words worthy of a response, so she pressed the barrel of her gun against Pam's cheek instead, letting it make her point for her.

Pam released the Joker and took a step back, and Harley lowered her gun, her eyes stinging. Then Pam shot her the most disappointed look Harley had ever been on the receiving end of in her life before she turned and bolted for the hole the Tumbler had made in the wall, her red hair disappearing out into the darkness.

Harley stared after her, feeling numb and empty, and not knowing what the hell she was supposed to do.

Then the engine of one of the remaining battered SUVs revved to life, and Harley whipped around in time to see one of the big, black Range Rovers reverse, crash into one of the other cars, then fly forward dangerously fast as it headed down the concrete spiral.

She watched it go, the emptiness inside her growing wider and wider as she realized the Joker was gone too.

Harley was alone.

She stood there for two full minutes, stunned as she grappled with what had just happened. Her legs were less rubbery now, making it easier to stand, but she was shaking like a leaf, and each breath she took sent shooting pains through her chest. Somewhere between guilt and grief, she noted that she needed to get to a safe house, but it took an unhappy moan followed by a string of Russian curses to snap Harley out of the fog that had settled over her.

She looked at the bodies surrounding her. Not dead bodies, live bodies because the Batman didn't kill people. But they were just bodies to Harley. They were nothing more than meat.

The four Odessas who were connected to Pam had started to come around. Two of them were tied back to back, but two more were simply unconscious. Harley flipped the safety on her gun to semi-automatic and limped across the parking garage until she was standing over them. She put a bullet in each of their heads, the efficiency of getting something productive done helping her move past the emotional storm swirling inside her.

Then she spotted Nikki behind the wheel of one of the cars the Tumbler had crashed past, his head bobbing from side to side as he regained consciousness. Harley pursed her lips, knowing she couldn't trust him now. She walked up to the car and shot him in the head. Sasha was tied up with the Lucky Hand's guards. Harley killed all of them, then tucked her gun away and jogged down the spiral of concrete.

In the distance, she could hear police sirens and helicopters, but they were getting farther away, not closer. They were chasing the Tumbler, which hadn't been seen on the street in a year, providing Harley with cover to make her escape— a small mercy.

The Bowery was one of the more abandoned parts of the Eastside, so she ended up standing on the side of the road, rocking from one foot to the other, waiting. Eventually, an old Ford Crown Victoria came speeding up the street toward her, punk rock blaring out of its speakers. Harley sighed in relief and stepped into the street so she was facing the car head-on. She flipped the safety on her gun back to fully-automatic and raised her arm, letting off a string of bullets into the night and making the car skid to a stop, it's massive backside fishtailing.

Harley reached the driver's door just as the driver got it open. He looked like he might have been one of Marty's boys, but unfortunately, he was also in possession of something Harley needed. She shot him in the head before he could open his mouth to protest, then grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him out into the street. Once his body hit the asphalt, she stepped over it and slid behind the wheel, then searched the car for something to remove the paint from her face. The windows weren't tinted, and she wasn't in the mood for a car chase.

Soda and a stained tee-shirt were the best she could come up with, but they did the job. Once she was warpaint-free, Harley sat back behind the wheel, running a hand over her sticky face before putting the car into drive.

Would she have really killed Pam if she hadn't let go of the Joker? Pam certainly thought so, but Harley wasn't so sure she would have been able to do it. She desperately wanted to convey that to Pam now. That she hadn't chosen  _him_  over Pam, she had just  _saved_  him  _from_  Pam. There was a huge difference.

It was impossible to anticipate what Pam would do next, and speculating on it made Harley feel even more exhausted than she already did with a beaten-up body, her wrist newly-injured, and her emotions running high.

Then there was the irritatingly intense part of her that wanted to find the Joker. But he neither needed nor wanted her around if the way he'd taken off was any indication. He'd threatened to shoot her if she killed the Batman, which might not have been surprising but was still disappointing. Then he'd just left her there after she saved him. Not that she expected a thank you, but he'd never just _left_  her before. Not  _ever._

The fantasy of the Joker being 'boyfriend material' seemed even more absurdly naive now than it had before. It didn't matter how he made her feel; the way he'd just left her there solidified what she already knew.

And it hurt. Bad.

But there wasn't time to dwell on that now. Harley needed to figure out where she was going.

Sofia. Taken by the Batman for reasons Harley didn't yet understand. Under normal circumstances, the police would never be able to pin anything on Sofia, but the Batman worked outside of the law. And unlike Pam, Sofia didn't have powers.

Harley exhaled through her teeth as she pulled onto the freeway. She needed to fix this. She was the  _only_  one who could fix this. One of those shitty plans that always seemed to work out for her started to come together as she sped toward Midtown, her foot pressing the accelerator into the floor.

It might not be safe to go back to Sofia's penthouse, but Harley had something she needed to pick up there. Her last card to play. Her ace in the hole.

* * *

Sofia Falcone did not sleep on floors, but as she came to from a drug-induced sleep, she realized that was precisely where she was. She planted one hand on the cold linoleum tiles, slowly pushing herself up. Her mascara had melted while she'd been unconscious, and she had to blink hard before she was able to open her eyes fully. She pushed her long, dark hair over her shoulder, remembering what had happened in the moments before she'd lost consciousness, however long ago that had been.

She was in a small room with a metal table and two chairs, and when she shifted to look over her shoulder, she was confronted with two figures glaring down at her from behind masks.

"Bloody hell," she scowled, pushing herself up so she was sitting with her legs crossed to the side. She was barefoot, and the handbag she'd been carrying was missing.

She pursed her lips unhappily at the vigilantes looming over her. The Batman looked huge from her vantage point on the floor, his bulky arms crossed over his chest. Then this new person, a young woman standing beside him. Her fists were planted on her hips as she looked down her nose at Sofia, radiating moral superiority.

"I hope you haven't lost my bag," Sofia drawled, rising to her feet with more dignity than the average person waking up on the floor would be able to muster. She held her chin high. "Karl Lagerfeld designed it for my birthday."

Neither of masked arseholes said anything, so Sofia lowered herself into one of the chairs at the table and crossed her legs, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully at the young woman with the mask and then at the Batman in turn.

"I hope you both realize," Sophia purred, her lip curling. "Harley Quinn won't let you get away with this."

* * *

Harley's first stop was Sofia's penthouse. She kept her gun out as she snuck through the foyer and living room and into the kitchen, where she nearly shot Sofia's fat husband Vito mid 3 AM ice cream binge. Harley filled him in on what happened, and he quickly jumped into action, gathering up the boys to take them to a safe house and calling the lawyers.

Harley's purpose there was to pick up her ace in the hole—Leo Ling, the only living son of Boss Ling.

Leo would get her the Lucky Hand's guards. The guards would get her Sofia and help her take out the Batman once and for all. She could only hope the Joker was either licking his wounds somewhere or planning something bigger, and therefore no longer part of the Lucky Hand equation. But she couldn't get ahold of Marty to confirm, loyal asshole that he was.

The sun had risen by the time Harley picked up Leo and made sure Vito and the boys were on their way to their safe house. She drove Leo to the Burnley Arms apartment, where she made a few calls. Bullock, to find out what he could find out about Sofia from Gordon, who no doubt had a part in this; Marty, for an update on the Joker —no answer again, bastard; Sergey, to let him know she had a job and needed him to get started ASAP.

Then she slept all day, needing her strength for what was to come. Her body still hurt, but it was a dull, bearable ache after a week of healing. She had a lovely footprint-shaped bruise on her chest thanks to the masked girl, and her wrist was swollen up like a grapefruit, possibly broken this time though she didn't know what to do about that aside from not use her left hand. And she was concussed again, her left ear ringing shrilly, but that was par for the course these days.

When Harley woke up early that evening, she took an ice-cold shower to help get her body in quasi-fighting shape and sent Leo to the store for supplies. He returned with an actual microwave he found in the street— thank God for lazy looters and abject poverty—along with some bread and eggs, and showed Harley how to make scrambled eggs in the microwave.

"Would you be surprised to hear freshman boys at Harvard can't cook?" He grinned as they chowed down on eggs and toast, managing to get Harley to crack a smile. They were sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter, making friendly conversation.

"I'm going to miss you, Leo," Harley told him affectionately, taking another bite.

"Where am I going? " Leo asked innocently.

Harley's eyebrow lifted. Usually, the drones never asked questions.

"Back to your dad," she said awkwardly, wondering if this was a Pam-related defect.

What would happen if Pam died? Did the drones go back to normal? Did they die? What if she got too far away? Was there such a thing as them being out of range of their Queen?

Harley nibbled on her toast, wishing she'd spent more time studying the nuances of Pam's powers and less time using them to take over the mob. That had been a terrible idea in hindsight. She had made a lot of terrible choices in hindsight, and realizing this now made her question her plan to use the Lucky Hand's guards to take on the Batman and Gordon. But she had no backup, no allies. The Russians and the Odessas wanted to see a deal with the Hand and weren't speaking to her. Marty had defected to the Joker. Pam was gone. Dinah was gone. The GCPD were still on her payroll, but aside from Bullock, she didn't trust any of them as far as she could throw them.

Harley was alone, and somehow she had to pull all the threads back together herself. The only way she could see to do that was through brute force. Take on the Batman. Get Sofia back. Make the deal... then she would worry about what she wanted to do next.

She ran both of her hands through her hair, pushing it off her face as she exhaled a long-suffering sigh.

"You okay, boss?" Leo asked, making a sympathetic face.

"A week ago, I felt like everyone wanted a piece of me, everyone wanted me to solve their problems, and I hated it," Harley mused. "Now I feel like without me, everything will fall apart. I have to fix it, and I still hate it, but I know I have no choice."

"You work too hard, boss," Leo set his plate aside and fixed her with a grim look. "You need to do what makes you happy, not what you think you need to do for everyone else."

"I don't know what makes me happy," Harley admitted. "Probably nothing. I'm doomed to keep making myself miserable."

"That's not true, I've seen you happy," Leo gave her hand a friendly pat. "You need to think about yourself for a change, boss."

Harley pursed her lips thoughtfully. She had been happy the morning she left the Joker's safehouse in Chinatown. That feeling of siphoning off some of his freewheeling, no shits given energy had puffed her up, made her feel light and clear-headed. But there were two problems with that.

First, relying on another person to make you happy was fundamentally a terrible idea, regardless of whether or not that person is a psychopath.

Second, the Joker wasn't interested in making her happy. He was interested in taking over the city and toying with the Batman, and maybe having her as a side piece if she didn't get in his way or give him a reason to kill her.

She looked up at Leo, chewing her lip anxiously. "What if I'm making a mistake?"

"You're still alive, aren't you?" Leo shrugged. "A lot of other people aren't. To me, that sounds like you don't make many mistakes."

Harley laughed weakly and checked her phone for the time. It was getting close to 8 PM, and the sun would be setting soon.

"Let's make a move," she suggested, and Leo jumped to his feet, eager to please.

* * *

Gotham City Airport was built in the early 1960s, a brutalist structure made of brown glass and concrete that was in dire need of repair.

The sun was setting as Pam rocked back on her heels, gazing up at the Departures board. She was trying to pick a plane to get on.

Since she'd let go of the drones, her head felt clear for the first time in months. Like wiping away a cluster of cobwebs so thick you couldn't see through them. She hadn't even realized they'd been there, but now she could breathe for the first time in so,  _so_  long. Harley had been right. She let her powers control and change her. With all those cobwebs crowding her brain, she hadn't been herself.

Pam wasn't an anxious person, even as the uptight but brilliant Dr Isley, always alone with her plants, she hadn't been the nervous type. But with all those minds connected to hers, stretching herself thinner and thinner, and not realizing what she was doing... now she was looking back on conversations with Harley in a new light. Neurotic and anxiety-ridden, nagging her friend instead of reasoning with her. It almost made Pam want to turn around and find Harley to tell her that hadn't been her. That hadn't been Pam, not really.

But that didn't change the fact that Harley was in love with a psychopath who would kill them both as quick as look at them. Pam was not going to enable that behavior, let alone take part in it as Harley seemed determined to do. But now that she was finally leaving, Pam wished she'd done more to reason with Harley. Instead, she'd just pushed her away. Maybe even pushed her closer to the Joker.

Harley was a complicated person, and Pam was undeniably drawn to her. They were so similar, their backgrounds in academia, the relentless way they pursued the things they wanted, their rebellious streaks, the way they had both morphed from upstanding citizens to creatures of the night.

Harley was funny, she was protective, and she could be as cruel as she could be kind. Strategic, creative, and calculating, she was an ideal partner for Pam, who hungered for something more and had the power to get it.

On the converse side of this, Pam was an ideal partner for Harley, who consistently have gave too much of herself—physically and intellectually—and needed tempering. Harley needed someone to balance her out, to remind her to keep her feet planted firmly on the earth, to remind her who she  _was_.

Pam wished Harley was standing beside her, helping her choose a plane to get on.

But Harley chose the Joker, a man she was doomed to play second fiddle to when she should have been first. A man who hurt her and would never stick by her when she needed him. Not like Pam would have.

There was a 10.45 flight to Seattle. Seattle was luscious and green and on the other side of the country. Pam turned away from the departures board and found the airline's desk, catching the arm of the woman behind the counter as she cheerfully asked how she could help.

"One ticket to Seattle, please," Pam smiled.

For now, it was time to leave Gotham. But if she were honest with herself, Pam wasn't so sure she'd seen the last of the city, or its most dangerous citizen, Harley Quinn.

* * *

Sofia has been scratching off her shellack manicure to keep herself busy. The last flake of red finally peeled off her pinkie, leaving her nails naked and pale. They looked like the claws of a dead woman, growing long even in death. Sofia made a face and checked her Cartier timepiece for the hundredth time. It had been around 4 AM when she'd woken up on the floor of what she was sure was an interrogation room at the MCU, and it was now nearly 9 PM. The sun would be setting soon, and she expected the Batman and his new partner to return to threaten her some more once it did.

Their original plan appeared to be to intimidate her into telling them where Harley was, which she laughed off.

"You won't kill me if I don't tell you," she drawled, eyeing them both disdainfully.

"Where is she," the Batman growled, making Sofia roll her eyes. How  _tedious_.

"Why do you care so much about Harley," she scoffed. "She's hardly a saint, but she's not the biggest threat to the city."

They didn't say anything, just glared at her from behind their ridiculous masks.

"I see," Sofia smirked wryly. "You want to get the Joker through her. That's probably wise. He's been far too quiet lately, which can't mean anything good for the city's hospitals."

"Sofia, we can make this easier on you if you help us find them," the girl hissed, keeping her voice low.

"Darling, you do not want to play this game with  _either_  of them," Sofia sneered. "I guarantee you'll lose. Well, you'll lose  _anyway._  Still, I don't recommend it."

There was a knock on the door then, and the lights went out. The door opened, but the lights in the hallway were out too, and when they came back on, Sofia was alone with a jug of water and a pack of cookies on the table.

She scoffed indignantly. As if she could be expected to eat  _cookies._

That had been hours ago, and the cookies were no more appealing now than they'd been then. Sofia had been careful with water consumption, too, since she could hardly be expected to relieve herself in the corner of an interrogation room.

People thought because Carmine Falcone ran the city for so long, that he always had been on top. But wasn't the case, and Sofia's father had been sure to teach her and her brothers those lessons just as he'd taught them everything else he knew. That included surviving torture and imprisonment.

She started picking at the acrylic nail on her pinkie, peeling it off a piece at a time and wincing when she ripped off part of the stubby, natural nail beneath.

The door swung open, and at last, Commissioner Gordon appeared, looking exhausted though he was trying to hide it.

"You haven't eaten your cookies," he remarked, sitting across from her at the table and folding his arms.

"I want my lawyer," Sofia replied coolly. "If you think you can get your costumed thugs to intimidate me, you're wrong. You have nothing to pin on me."

Gordon pulled out his phone and tapped the screen a few times, then passed it across the table to Sofia. Her heart nearly stopped when she realized what she was looking at. It was grainy video footage of a room that looked exactly like the one she was in, but sitting at the table was Anton Kolisnyk, the Ukranian oligarch and Sofia's primary money laundering partner.

"You know who that is, don't you?" Gordon asked, cocky because he did indeed have something rather good up his sleeve.

Sofia pursed her lips and peered down at the video. It quickly became apparent that it was a live feed, and that Kolisnyk was unconscious and tied up. Bound with the kind of cables the Batman liked to use. She fought back a scowl.

"So you're kidnapping wealthy people and holding them hostage in your fortress, is that it?" Sofia demanded, her eyes narrowing. "You will regret this, Mr Gordon," she warned.

"See, I think you may live to regret a few things, Ms Falcone," Gordon countered coolly. "Like trying to take over the family business when you had your own business to run. You still do, don't you? How do you think shareholders will react when Mr Kolisnyk gives evidence that you personally set up a deal to launder money through Kyiv Financial?"

Sofia chuckled smugly, shaking her head. "You cannot  _possibly_  hope to get Janice Porter to open a real investigation into this."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Gordon raised his eyebrows appraisingly. "She hasn't been very discrete these last few months." He narrowed his eyes. "Almost as if something, or  _someone,_  made you all think you could get away with murder in broad daylight and not face the consequences. But now we're going to shine a little more daylight on our DA, and see if we can't get her to do the right thing."

Sofia's lips puckered as she considered what he was saying— that he had the goods on Janice Porter and was going to force her to flip, just as they'd forced Kolisnyk to return to the US outside of proper legal channels.

"International politics aren't a specialty of yours are they," Sofia sneered. "The Ukrainian government won't stand for this. You'll have their embassy breathing down your neck before tomorrow morning."

"You know what's funny? Maroni's main money launderer Mr Lau thought the same thing about Hong Kong," Gordon's eyebrows rose appraisingly. "That didn't work out so well for him."

Sofia scowled, but there were still plenty of holes in Gordon's argument, even if Janice Porter did open an investigation and got Kolisnyk to talk.

"It's the court of public opinion you need to be worried about, Ms Falcone," Gordon continued breezily. "Sometimes it's more effective than the law itself."

Sofia's eyes widened indignantly, and she opened her mouth to spit out a threat when someone started banging on the interrogation room's door

"Ughhh, Commissioner? I got some uh, cash receipts here I need you to look over," Bullock shouted through the door, banging on it again. "I dunno if this is a bad time, but I'm pretty sure I uhhhh need to get these signed off tonight..."

"Whomever is out there, I am being held illegally by Commissioner Gordon and the Batman," Sofia called back drolly, successfully hiding her smirk so she wouldn't blow Bullock's cover.

Gordon looked unimpressed and told Bullock he'd be out shortly, then turned back to Sofia.

"Your reputation will be in tatters either way," he informed her grimly. "But if you help us get Harley Quinn and the Joker, we might be able to keep you from serving jail time."

Sofia did allow a slow smirk to spread across her face then. These people were blinded by their ideas of goodness, by their dedication to how right and moral they thought they were. They thought it made them stronger when in fact, it made them weak. They couldn't see the world for what it was, not like their counterparts in the darkness. For all his faults, the Joker was right about people. Gordon and the Batman, and now this masked girl, they would never  _truly_  win because they refused to see past their own beloved morality.

"You've put your trust in the wrong person, Ms Falcone," Gordon sighed, seeing that he wouldn't be getting anything out of her.

"No, Mr Gordon," Sofia replied coldly. "I'm quite sure I haven't."

Gordon got to his feet, folding his phone back into his pocket and shooting Sofia one last appraising look.

"Why don't you have some cookies while we wait for Mr Kolisnyk to wake up," he suggested dryly. "I'm sure everyone will be interested to hear what he has to say."

* * *

Harley sat in the Crown Vic listening to Leo bang around in the trunk, his muffled screams growing hoarser the longer she left him in there.

Pam was officially out of the game, evident in the way Leo had switched from his affable, good-natured self to a horrified, screaming victim while Sergey was outfitting him with a suicide vest. It was like a light switching off. Pam released him, and probably all the other drones from her influence too, which meant she was gone and would not be coming back. It was the last thing Harley needed, but she should have expected it.

She was parked up the street from an opium den in Chinatown. She'd known it was the place to find the Lucky Hand bosses for a long time now, but she had never needed to go straight to the source before. It had always been about playing the Hand from the bottom up, playing the long game. But it all seemed incredibly pointless now. Months spent infiltrating their gang and fighting a drug war. A  _drug_  war. And for what? For power? For endless meetings and bureaucracy and politics?

Thinking like this was making Harley doubt her current plan. She couldn't remember doubting herself like this before. She'd always believed in herself.  _Always._  And now she was thinking about conversations she'd had with the Joker at Arkham when she told him his narcissism would be his downfall because it meant he couldn't see when he was making a bad move. Was that what she was doing by thinking she could just walk up to the Lucky Hand bosses with one of their sons dressed up in a suicide vest and demand they give her their men to help her kill the Batman and save Sofia?

Harley just wished she had somebody to soundboard this plan off of.

But she didn't have anyone, and she didn't have a better plan, and with that in mind, she checked her warpaint in the rearview mirror and climbed out of the car. When she slammed the door, the banging and shouting in the trunk stopped as Leo, smart man that he was, realized something was happening. Harley circled the car to the trunk and unlocked it, pointing her gun at Leo's head before he could do something brave.

"I'm not going to kill you," she promised, watching him huff and seeth behind the duct tape covering his mouth. This was a completely different person to the man she'd been eating scrambled eggs with earlier that day. This man  _hated_  her. "Unless you do something so stupid that I'm forced to," she added, raising one eyebrow.

When he just narrowed his eyes at her, the hatred rolling off him in waves, Harley sighed and tucked her gun away, retrieving the detonator from her suit jacket and holding it up for Leo to see. She twisted the key, and three lights blinked on, the red laser on the suicide vest lighting up as well, making Leo's eyes widen in horror.

"If you think I won't blow you up, you haven't been paying attention," Harley informed him coldly. "Now, get out of the fucking car."

She grabbed a handful of the suicide vest with her weaker hand, reasoning the detonator was more important as she held it aloft and forced Leo down the street. He stumbled and staggered, making Harley snap impatiently until they arrived at a set of black double doors in a black-painted wall.

Leo eyed Harley nervously as she rolled her shoulders back, preparing herself. She shot him a warning look before banging three times on the black door.

A rectangle pane in the door slid open, and a pair of eyes glared out at them. Harley shoved Leo forward so the eyes could see him and held the detonator up beside his head.

"This is Leo Ling, Boss Ling's only living son," Harley announced, watching as the first pair of eyes disappeared and a second pair replaced them, widening at the sight of Leo and the detonator. "Let me in," Harley added coldly.

She huffed impatiently as the men on the other side of the door argued together in Mandarin, going back and forth until she snapped at them to hurry it up. Then the black door slid open as the rectangle had done before, and Harley shoved Leo over the threshold, making sure the two guards on the other side saw the detonator blinking in her hand.

The hallway was lit with red lanterns, filling the space with an eerie glow Harley suspected was supposed to be easy on the opium addicts' eyes. She followed one of the guards down the hall, pushing Leo after him. They turned down a corridor of rooms with beaded curtains, and inside she could see people passed out on beds and armchairs.

They stopped at a door after turning again, and the guard called through the door in Mandarin. A voice came back from the other side, and Harley braced herself as she was admitted into a dimly lit office. She tightened her grip on Leo's vest even though it hurt her wrist and forced him forward, her whole body tensing as the door slammed shut behind her, and she looked around the room.

There was a circular table surrounded by three armchairs, each one occupied by a Lucky Hand boss glaring at her hard.

In the corner was the Joker, decked out in his full purple suit and warpaint. Harley couldn't read his expression across the room, but her stomach lurched painfully, seeing him there, seeing someone so familiar so close when she was so alone. But there was nothing familiar in the way he looked at her. He looked at her like he didn't know her, glowering in the corner as he prodded his bottom lip with his tongue.

"Leo!" Boss Ling stood abruptly, and from behind his duct tape, Leo tried to call out to his father.

"Told you we'd bring him home," Harley said with a nasty smile, holding up the detonator. It was enough to make Ling shrink back while Tzu stood up in a huff.

"What is the meaning of this!" He blustered.

"The Batman kidnapped Sofia Falcone," Harley explained woodenly. "She's being held at the MCU. I need your guards to come with me to get her back."

The bosses started shouting at each other in their mother tongue, all three radiating righteous indignation, and Harley was on the verge of blowing them all the hell up so she didn't have to  _deal_  with this anymore. Then Tzu turned to her again.

"Now that your Poison Ivy is no longer controlling our men, you threaten us like this!" he scoffed.

"Pretty much," Harley snapped back, glaring at each of them in turn. "Sofia still wants the deal to go forward. Help me get her back, help me take out the Batman, and we can all live happily ever after. Including Leo."

Boss Lau rose to his feet slowly. "Why should we waste our efforts on Sofia Falcone when we have the real power behind her right here in front of us."

Harley blinked hard, not sure she understood what Lau was suggesting. Tzu and Ling seemed to be in the same boat, both of them blustering indignantly at their partner.

"I gotta tell you," Harley grit out. "My patience is wearing thin."

"Lau is right," Ling said to Tzu. "I am tired of this war. Harley Quinn is the one who runs this city, and she can control the Russians."

Tzu ranted unhappily at his partners as he sat back down. Then he waved his hand, scoffing as he grabbed a cigarette off the table, apparently agreeing to something.

It took Harley longer than it should have to realize what he was agreeing to.

"Excuse me, are you actually asking me to run the mob for you?" She demanded incredulously.

"Why not? You already do in all but name," Ling sniffed. "Sofia Falcone is superfluous."

"I don't  _want_  it," Harley snapped bitterly, forcing herself  _not_  to look at the Joker, who she could  _feel_  watching her from the corner.

"Which makes you the perfect person to be in charge," Lau nodded, lowering himself back into his chair. "As a show of good faith, you can use our men to help you save Ms Falcone."

Harley's eyes started to sting, and she felt her chest constrict as she came shockingly close to sobbing in frustration. She tried to envision a way around what they were asking, but it seemed impossible. They had built a box around her with their demands, and because she needed their men, she was stuck. Because the Batman had Sofia, she was stuck. Because she had to hold things together and had no one to fall back on, she was stuck.

Harley lowered the detonator to her side.

"Fine," she agreed, her voice ragged and tired. She pictured an infinite desert ahead of her, and the endless journey she was about to embark on through it.

"Agreed," Tzu nodded, exhaling a lungful of smoke as Ling rushed over to his son, helping him with the duct tape covering his mouth.

The emptiness Harley felt when Pam left spread through her, leaving her numb and desolate. She backed out of the room, her free hand fumbling with the handle on the door until she was out in the red-tinted hallway again. She tried to make a plan, a next step, but first, she first needed to lay down. Maybe drink the rest of the bottle of gin waiting for her at her safe house so she didn't have to feel like she'd completely lost control of her life for a few hours.

She staggered down the hallway and out onto the street, raking her hair off her face and ignoring the strange looks she received from the guards as she headed for her car.

" _HEY!"_

Harley spun around at the sound of the Joker's voice, her eyes narrowing. He had followed her out into the street, licking his bottom lip and looking agitated as he closed the distance between them, just out of earshot of the guards.

"What the fuck are you doing, huh?" He demanded roughly, squinting at her.

"What are  _you_  doing?" She spat back. "You were just  _standing_ there with them like some kind of...  _employee!_ " _S_ he accused, her lip curling.

The Joker gave a raspy little chuckle and shook his head as he continued toward her.

"I believe in your old business they call that...  _projection,"_ he sneered.

Harley scowled back at him, feeling her shoulders grow tighter with each step he took toward her. She reminded herself that he couldn't be relied on. That he could never be with her, and there was no point entertaining him.

"You try  _so hard_ to be what you  _think_ you should be," he scoffed, flapping his hand at her. "Dr Quinzel,  _celebrated psychologist._  Harley Quinn,  _mob queen."_

"Stop telling me who I am!" Harley huffed miserably.

"I'm the  _only_  one not telling you who you are!" the Joker snapped irritably, lurching forward so he was right in her face. "You  _never_  let yourself have what you want, and it's fuckin'  _infuriating_ to watch because it's  _killing_  you."

His words hit home so powerfully that Harley couldn't think of anything to retort with. It was like seeing a picture of something that had been described, and only understanding what it was when you saw the picture itself.

"You got any idea how  _annoying_  your little personal crises are?" the Joker continued to complain. " _Torturing_  yourself? I mean,  _sometimes_  it's funny. But  _this,"_  he gestured at her flippantly, his eyes rolling over her. "What the fuck  _is_  this, huh?"

Harley looked up at him, startled to see something on his face she had never seen before:  _sincerity_.

"I don't know what to do," Harley admitted weakly. "I just want it to stop."

The Joker grabbed her wrist, hauling it up, so the detonator was right in her face, blinking away.

"Why don't you start with stirring the pot," he advised, his voice low. He was staring at her hard like he was trying to see through her. "See what comes out of the  _rubble,_ " he growled.

Harley sucked in a shaky breath. Advice from the Joker. With his poisonous silver tongue that turned Harvey Dent into a killer and manipulated a city into near anarchy.

But as soon as he said it, Harley she knew it was what she wanted. Her eyes widened as she realized just how badly she wanted it.

It must have been evident on her face because the Joker suddenly ducked down, his free hand diving into her hair to yank her close as he kissed her hard. Harley gave into it, leaning into him as her thumb searched out the button on the detonator. When she found it, she pressed it, and there were two seconds where nothing happened aside from the intoxicating feeling of being kissed like she was about to disappear.

Then an explosion rocked the street behind them, a wave of noise and heat blowing past them. Harley felt it rush up her back, lifting her right off her feet and throwing her across the street. Blood was roaring in her ears and her head was spinning, and she felt like she was tumbling through a crashing wave before she landed hard, her knees slamming into the pavement.

She was too disorientated to move at first, but she could hear the Joker grunt weakly beneath her, forcing her to lift her head to make sure he wasn't about to die after breaking her fall. He was raking his hair off his face, licking his bottom lip unhappily. Harley sat back on her heels, her head swimming from moving too fast.

It was over, Harley realized. She had just abdicated her role in the mob. It was over. They were gone, and she was free.

She clambered to her feet and offered the Joker her hand. He chuckled weakly and took it, and she pulled him to his feet.

* * *

**A/N: You could call this the end of Part 3A, if you wanted to.**

**Four chapters left, you guys — possibly four of my favorites.**

**Next: Harley finds out what happens when she finally gives in and stirs the pot.**

**Please comment and/or review! I LIVE FOR IT. xo**


	29. Chapter 29

The Harlequin

29.

* * *

So,  _maybe_  Harley should have made sure they were clear of the blast radius before she set off the detonator. She wanted to laugh, but she was hurting a little too badly as she and the Joker stumbled up the street where the Crown Vic was parked. She was limping, but only because both of her knees were aching from hitting the concrete. He was moving fast but unsteadily after being thrown to the curb and breaking her fall. Harley helped him around to the passenger side, but he opened the door himself, not quite shrugging her off, but letting her know her hovering was unnecessary.

"Shit," Harley sighed once she was sitting behind the wheel. Her ears were ringing so loudly she almost didn't hear herself.

"Uh huh," the Joker agreed faintly, and when Harley looked over at him, she saw his head flop back against the seat, a satisfied smirk on his face.

She assumed he was pleased she'd followed his advice about stirring the pot. She was glad too. The phrase 'a weight off her shoulders' felt overwhelmingly appropriate. The men who led the Lucky Hand were dead. Eventually, men would replace them in the power vacuum she'd created, but for now, they were gone, and she was free of them. That didn't solve a lot of her problems, but flipping the chessboard over instead of being forced to make another move felt unbelievably good—it felt like  _freedom_.

Harley pulled the Crown Vic onto the main road, the sound of sirens in the distance informing her that it was time to go. She reached behind the driver's seat for the tee-shirt she'd used to clean the paint off her face the night before, then passed it to the Joker. He buried his face in the sticky fabric until his warpaint had smeared away, then tossed the shirt into the back before sliding down in his seat, his eyes on the road. He was unusually quiet, Harley thought, but when she tried to think of something to say to fill the silence, she drew a complete blank. What did you  _say_  after making a move like that? Blowing up the men she'd just made a deal with while the Joker kissed her. Burning the Lucky Hand to the ground and taking off into the night together. Where did that leave them?

Harley tried to focus on getting them to her safe house alive and in one piece instead of on the silence, which only grew more tense the longer it stretched on. She told herself it didn't matter what was happening between them; it was what would happen to  _her_  next that mattered, and right now, Harley had no plan in place. She felt like she was standing on a cliff, staring into an abyss that contained nothing and everything, just as she had in the days before she became a wanted criminal.

Then, like now, the Joker was sitting beside her, and she was both terrified and exhilarated.

There was freedom in chaos, Harley knew that. But blowing up a building to spice things up was one thing. Jumping headfirst into the abyss was something else entirely. Especially when she wasn't sure if she would be alone when she did it.

The Joker didn't speak when she parked outside the public housing building, but she saw his bottom lip jut out and his eyebrows raise, intrigued that she'd taken him there. He followed her through the winding maze of brick walls silently, and Harley began to feel both excited and nervous with him looming behind her.

She slid the loose brick out of the wall beside the front door to pick up the key, and the Joker followed her over the threshold and into the kitchen, sniffing the air curiously.

"How'd you get rid of the dead body smell?" He drawled, leaning against the kitchen counter as Harley grabbed the bottle of gin off the side.

"Girlie candles," she replied easily, sliding the gin and a glass along the counter until she was almost standing toe-to-toe with him.

He let out a low hum as if he found this information exceptionally enlightening while Harley poured a measure of gin into the glass. She lifted her eyes to the Joker's and raised the glass to her lips, swallowed a mouthful before she offered the glass to him. He accepted it, eyeing her curiously, then knocked back the rest without looking away.

The uncertainty Harley was feeling seemed to crackle between them, making her skin prickle as they considered one another cautiously.

"So," he dropped the glass on the counter, and it rattled around in a circle, a jarring sound in the quiet apartment. " _What_  now?"

Harley searched his face, trying to read him, but he wasn't giving anything away. He was just standing there, waiting for her, putting the ball in her court. That felt like a cheap move to Harley because it wasn't  _her_  who needed to make a move. So she decided to meet him halfway.

She stepped forward, laying her hand flat on his chest. She kept her eyes on her hand as it slid up to his neck, where she felt his pulse hammering beneath her fingertips. For someone so good at pretending to be ambivalent about everything, he was awfully excited to be there with her now. Harley's eyes slowly rose to meet his.

"What do you want?" She asked, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

The Joker licked his lips, his eyes narrowing, then he grabbed the lapel of her blazer roughly, making Harley's heart leap.

"I already told you... " he growled, using his grip on her jacket to tug her closer. " _Lots_  of things..."

 _Fine,_  Harley thought, her eyes closing as she lifted her face for him to kiss her. She wanted this too, and she didn't know how to explain what else she wanted.

This would do for now.

He kissed her lazily, taking his time to part her lips and slide his tongue against hers. Harley could feel the tension around them easing into something much more comfortable and less claustrophobic. She let herself lean against him, enjoying the simple pleasure of his mouth on hers, of his hand edging into her hair, of his body against hers as she pressed closer.

A sigh slipped past her lips, and his fist tightened in her hair, pulling it just hard enough that she felt it in her fingertips. Harley looped her arms around his neck, trying to get closer as the Joker rotated her around and pressed her up against the kitchen counter with that same languid slowness that made her toes curl.

Then his hands closed around her waist, and he lifted her onto the counter and stepped between her legs. Harley pushed his violet suit jacket off his shoulders, and he released her briefly to shrug out of it, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. She wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him in closer as his arms closed around her again.

"Did you quit smoking?" She murmured as he unbuttoned her shirt, a button skittering across the counter and hitting the floor.

"Smoking's not uh,  _encouraged_  after being shot in the chest," the Joker said drily, tugging her shirt free from her trousers so it was hanging open. "Takes up too much time anyway," he added, before catching her lips again.

Harley pulled back to judge his expression, but as with the other times he'd mentioned her nearly killing him, he looked unconcerned. Actually, this time, he was smirking faintly, almost affectionately, as he slid one hand up her side beneath her shirt, the heel of his hand grazing the side of her breast. Harley felt a slow smirk form on her lips as she tipped her head back for him to kiss her again.

"No  _frilly_  things this time," he observed, making her laugh quietly.

"I've been a little too busy to worry about frilly things," she replied, tugging his tie loose.

The Joker hummed again to show he agreed with her, then shifted back so he could slide his hands under her ass and drag her off the counter. Harley's arms tightened around his neck as he carried her down the short hallway, and she finally felt herself begin to relax.

* * *

Janice Porter was corrupt, but she was still Gotham's DA, which meant she couldn't turn down a meeting with the police commissioner, no matter how pointless it may have been for him. It was early, not yet 6 AM, but with the Dent Act up for a vote again in just a few days, Janice had been working nonstop, knowing full well if she didn't use every legal trick she had up her sleeve to stop the vote she would be up shit creek with Harley Quinn. That was not a place she nor anyone with any sense would want to be.

Technically, Janice was in the employ of Harley's boss, Sofia Falcone, but everyone knew who _really_  ran the show.

"Commissioner Gordon," Janice smiled, opening her office door and offering the head of the MCU her hand. Her eyes darted down to the thick holder he had tucked under his arm. "Thank you for agreeing to see me so early," she added.

"Not a problem, Mrs Porter," Gordon replied with a disarming affability that always put Janice on edge. "Thanks for seeing me at all."

She smiled tersely and offered him a seat in front of her desk before sitting herself.

"What can I do for you?" she asked, with another strained smile.

"It's about Kyiv Financial," Gordon explained. "I need a warrant to freeze a handful of their customers' accounts."

Janice's smile faltered. Gordon knew better than to ask for a warrant for the mob's lead financier.

"On what grounds?" She asked, less friendly now.

"On the grounds that Anton Kolisnyk, the Ukranian oligarch who owns a large share of Kyiv Financial, is about to find himself under investigation for money laundering here in Gotham."

"Under investigation in  _Gotham_?" Janice stifled an incredulous chuckle, thinking Gordon must have had a death wish if he was going down this road. "Ukraine will never allow Kolisnyk to be extradited to the US," she informed him smugly.

"You see, a good friend of mine managed to convince Mr Kolisnyk to return to the US," Gordon explained, shooting her a knowing look. "He just got back to Gotham yesterday."

Janice's mouth tightened. She remembered reading about how the Batman returned Lau to Gotham, kidnapping him from Hong Kong.

"That's very interesting," Janice said sourly, doing some quick legal and not-so-legal calculations. "But intimidating Mr Kolisnyk into giving testimony via a...  _freelancing_  intermediary will not hold up in court."

"I was thinking that after you open this investigation, you could offer Mr Kolisnyk a deal in exchange for giving evidence against certain associates of yours," Gordon continued, making Janice's eyes widen incredulously that he would be so bold. "See, his brother-in-law is Ukraine's Attorney General, so if he's allowed to return home to be investigated by his own government, there's a pretty good chance he won't be prosecuted."

"I don't know what associates you mean," Janice scoffed outright. "You're out of your mind if you think I'm going to open an investigation into this farce."

"Oh, sure you do," Gordon shifted forward to drop the thick file he'd been carrying on the desk **.** It landed with a dull thump, and Jance warily pulled it closer, opening it. She sucked in a breath when she saw the top page. It was a file someone had been building on her. It was evidence of corruption.

"Your boys go to a prep school upstate, don't they?" Gordon asked once Janice had time to absorb what she was looking at, his tone casual and friendly. "You're probably hoping they get into ivy leagues. It'd be a shame if that all got derailed because of a corruption scandal. Or worse, their mother gets indicted for aiding and abetting a known terrorist."

Janice stared at Gordon across her desk, trying to decide if he was bluffing. It was difficult to say; he was so damn cocky when for months, he'd been quiet and bitter, aware that he was powerless. The Batman gave him power. Outside of the law. Outside of Janice's jurisdiction. Now he was presenting her with a choice. Prosecute Sofia Falcone with help from the Batman, and possibly get murdered by Harley Quinn, or almost certainly have her life destroyed the good old fashioned legal way.

"Join the good guys, Janice," Gordon encouraged, his voice softening as he leant forward intently. "Come into the light. I promise you'll sleep easier at night."

"She'll kill me," Janice said quietly. "She'll kill my children too."

Gordon ran a hand through his hair, his expression growing more sympathetic. "We'll give you and your children 24/7 police security."

"She owns the police," Janice countered.

"Not all of them," Gordon replied quickly. "I'll make sure you have good cops around you, and Harley Quinn will be in jail soon enough."

"How the hell do you plan on doing  _that?"_  Janice asked incredulously, her voice thick.

"We have a ringer," Gordon explained. "One of her girls flipped, and once we get Harley, we can take the Joker down too."

Janice couldn't help think this was naive, but she didn't see what other choices she had.

* * *

There were no curtains in the bedroom, and usually, that didn't bother Harley. Normally, if she was in bed, she was so tired she could sleep through anything, including a little sunlight. But she'd been alternating between dozing and staring at the wall for going on four hours now. She preferred the dozing because when she was awake, she was mostly torturing herself — trying to figure out what the hell she would do next. Speculating wildly on where Pam and Sofia were and what they were doing, or being  _made_  to do.

She felt better, lighter than she had in months, even though there was still a lot on her shoulders, namely getting Sofia back, but today it didn't feel as crushing and terrible as it had the day before.

Then there was the Joker, who was currently sleeping beside her. His steady, slightly wheezy breathing a constant reminder of one more problem she had to contend with.

Did he count as a problem? He didn't feel like a problem. He felt like a balm. But Harley wasn't naive enough to think he would be available to calm and distract her for longer than a few more hours. Then she would be alone. She never used to mind being alone. It made her wonder if it was the prospect of being alone that bothered her, or if it was really about not having  _him_  beside her.

She let out a long sigh and tucked her knees up to her chest. She felt okay today physically, the ringing in her ears had stopped, and her aches and pains were dull. She was alive, and aside from a weak wrist, she wasn't too banged up, which was a nice change of pace.

The bed dipped behind her as the Joker rolled over, but Harley continued to stare at the wall, her jaw clenching stubbornly as he draped one arm over her hip and propped himself up so he could peer down at her.

"Hmm," he growled. "What's the big brain doin' now?"

Harley tipped her head back to look up at the Joker, his characterization of her brooding making her fight back a smile.

"What?" She asked, the smile breaking through.

" _You_  heard me," he rasped, raising a knowing eyebrow as his hand drifted up her stomach, making her legs uncurl from the fetal position.

"Lot's of stuff," she sighed, gazing up at him. The sun was streaming through the window, making his messy hair look blonder and more boyish. It was all very romantic and stupid.

"Uh huh," he said flatly, obviously amused by her torment. He started to walk his first two fingers down her stomach, pausing just below her navel and hovering there.

Harley groaned miserably. "Distract me," she begged, widening her eyes at him.

The Joker chuckled smugly and slipped his hand between her legs to touch her, lowering his face to her neck where he pressed his nose against her jaw. Harley sighed happily, the lazy build of pleasure clearing her head, making it easy to focus on the moment instead of the future. She canted her hips back, mumbling something encouraging to make his fingers work harder. Then his hand disappeared, and she could feel him positioning himself behind her. She moaned quietly when he sank into her, his hand on her hip drawing her back to meet him.

Harley's head rolled back on the pillow as their bodies connected. His lips were on her shoulder and his hands were spreading over her, but it took a muffled groan in her ear for Harley to realize he was right there with her, squeezing her and pawing at her as he became as intensely wrapped up in her as she was in him. She laughed softly, giddiness bleeding into desire, making her feel delirious as her body began to climb higher and higher.

When they both finished, the Joker propped himself up on his elbow again and squinted down at her curiously. Like she was a puzzle he couldn't work out — a constant theme in their relationship.

Then her phone started to ring, and Harley jumped up to grab it off the floor, her shoulder knocking into his face, giving him an opening to grunt melodramatically and mutter under his breath, making Harley smile again.

Sofia's image appeared on the cracked phone screen. It was a picture taken at her birthday party. She was wearing a pink crown with flashing lights and holding a fishbowl-sized margarita, one eyebrow raised disdainfully.

"Ann Smiley's spa and salon, Ann speaking," Harley answered cautiously, ignoring the bemused look the Joker sent her.

"Hello, Ann," Sofia's purr came through the other end of the line. "I'd look to book a manicure."

"Thank God." Harley released a relieved sigh, one more problem springing off her shoulders, making her even lighter. "Are you okay?"

"Mostly," Sofia said drily. "They made me eat cookies."

Harley laughed and pulled herself up, so she was sitting with her back to the Joker. She could feel his eyes on her, like two lasers searing right through her.

"Listen, I need to speak to you," Sofia continued, her voice growing serious. "In person. I'm not sure how safe it is to speak on the phone with the bloody Batman being so...  _relentless_."

"Okay..." Harley agreed reluctantly. "I can probably get to you in about twenty..."

"No, no, no. Darling, no," Sofia cut her off with a chuckle. "I take it after last night you're bedded down with Pretty Boy somewhere _. Reuniting_ , as it were."

Harley looked over her shoulder at the Joker. He had propped his head and shoulders up on a pillow and was watching her through narrowed eyes. Not suspiciously. Just curious, his tongue prodding his bottom rhythmically as he waited for her.

"I'm with Vito and the boys," Sofia continued. "He says he told you where. Come when you can, there's no rush."

"Okay," Harley said again, bewildered by the lack of urgency. What the hell had happened to her at the MCU? "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Darling, I have never been better," Sofia replied breezily. "Enjoy yourself. I'll see you soon."

Harley hung up and took her time lowering the phone to the floor, trying to work out what about being kidnapped by the Batman's new sidekick could have made Sofia better than she'd ever been.

The Joker ran a finger down her spine then, distracting Harley from her thoughts. She turned to look at him over her shoulder to find his eyebrows were raised appraisingly. He wanted to know what was going on, but Harley still didn't know what was happening between them, or even if they were still on opposing sides.

"Your gal pal doin' all right?" he finally asked, his thumb rubbing back and forth over one of her vertebrae.

Harley nodded slowly, deciding to take Sofia's advice and enjoy herself. She stretched out on her side so she was facing him, bracing her elbow on the bed and resting her cheek on her knuckles as she looked up at him.

"Why do you hate her?" She asked, her fingers sneaking up to trace one of his ribs.

"Hmm," the Joker rolled his eyes away from her, dramatizing his weighing up the pros and cons of telling her. "Let's just say... we have a _history_."

"Yeah, I figured out that much on my own," Harley raised an amused eyebrow, feeling bolder asking about his past than she had yet.

He made a face but didn't say anything further, and Harley could feel herself deflate a little, disappointed that he wasn't interested in sharing with her. But that lack of sharing was something she'd always known would be there. There was even something about the mystery that attracted her. Still, it was more evidence of what she already knew to be true about things between them.

She shook her head, trying to rid herself of her doubts and just enjoy what was in front of her. She pushed herself up off her elbow and shifted forward to stretch out on top of him, her arms folded on his chest as she looked him in the eye. He eyed her back warily, and Harley offered him a crooked smile.

"What was Mexico like?" she tried, and this time she felt him relax beneath her. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he growled happily.

" _So_  much fun," he grinned wolfishly, his eyes snapping back to her, making her giggle. "It's like the wild fuckin' west down there," he continued, raising one eyebrow at her. " _No_  rules."

"Did you give anyone a Columbian Necktie?" Harley quirked her eyebrows suggestively, and he squinted at her out of one eye.

"That's like askin' if I went to Paris and saw the Eiffel Tower," he pointed out, making her laugh.

"Obviously," she grinned, absentmindedly running her nails down his chest. She saw his eyelids droop and knew that meant he liked it. It made her smile soften. It made her feel close to him in a way that  _still_  seemed impossible after all this time.

_BANG BANG BANG_

Someone pounded on the front door, making Harley and the Joker spring apart. She rolled to grab her gun, aiming at the open bedroom door, her body tensing for a fight. Beside her, the Joker had done the same, and they exchanged a quick look when there was another  _BANG BANG BANG_  on the front door.

Harley got to her feet, grabbing the first item of clothing she could find—his lilac shirt—and quickly shoved her arms in the sleeves, doing up the buttons with her left hand while her right leveled the gun at the door as she edged out of the room.

The banging continued, and Harley felt adrenaline begin to spike in her blood as she ticked over different scenarios to explain someone trying to knock down the front door of her safe house. She crept up to the door and peered out the peephole, then groaned in exasperation and lowered her gun before trotting back to the bedroom.

"False alarm," she told the Joker, who had reached for his pants and looked on the verge of getting dressed to her great disappointment. "It's just the delivery guy with the boiler."

His eyes widened as if she was speaking a foreign language. "The _boiler_?" he squinted at her.

"You know, for hot water," Harley chuckled, tossing her gun on the bed. "Stay here," she added before she closed the door on him.

Harley let the delivery man in, offering him a strained smile as he wheeled the new boiler into the apartment.

"You just move in?" he asked conversationally, offloading the boiler in the living room where the old one was still hooked up in the corner.

"Uh, kinda," Harley said, trying to sound friendly and succeeding somewhat.

"This shouldn't take too long to set up," the boiler man explained, examining the old boiler before turning back to Harley and offering her a clipboard. "If you could just sign this," he said, keeping his eyes on her face instead of her legs.

Harley signed the paper and made a quick escape back to the bedroom where the Joker was propped up against the wall, his attention on a burner phone he was typing furiously on. She pushed the door closed behind her and leaned against it, closing her eyes as she sighed out the nervous energy still racing through her. When she opened her eyes, the Joker had set his phone to the side and was looking at her. Not so much looking at her as  _ogling_  her. Harley glanced down at the misbuttoned shirt and wondered if seeing her in his clothes was tickling his ego. It almost definitely was.

His head fell back against the wall, and his eyes grew hooded. "C'mere," he said, gesturing for her to come closer.

Harley hesitated, still feeling like she was on shaky ground with her decision-making skills. But then he dropped his chin down, looking up at her as if to say,  _Really_?, and she relented, stepping up onto the mattress and lowering herself down onto his lap so she was sitting astride him. She must have looked uncertain or suspicious because the Joker lifted an amused eyebrow at her and grabbed a handful of his shirt, yanking her closer so he could kiss her.

Harley relaxed into the kiss, just short of sighing contently as she smoothed his hair back from his forehead with her palms. Then his fingers were between her legs, gliding over her until she pulled back.

"Stop," she admonished him.

"Uh...  _why_?" He looked bewildered but stopped touching her.

"Because there's a guy out there," Harley hissed, inclining her head to the door.

"Want me to kill him?" The Joker offered her a lazy smirk.

"No, I want hot water," Harley replied pointedly, attempting a reproachful glare that swiftly melted into a reluctant smile under his knowing gaze. That seemed to be consent enough for him, and his hand snuck back between her legs.

"Doesn't feel like that's  _all_  you want," he observed slyly, stroking her slowly.

Harley closed her eyes as he started to rub wide, lazy circles with his thumb, and she could feel him watching her face closely as he let the tip of one finger slide along her entrance, teasing her. She hummed weakly as his free hand slid up her leg to her hip, squeezing her as his thumb swiped over her hipbone. Harley could feel a weak moan on the tip of her tongue when she remembered the boiler man in the other room, and her eyes snapped open. She forced a stern look that made the Joker chuckle, his eyes crinkling up in the corners.

"What if," he said slyly, dipping the tip of his finger inside her, forcing a short, surprised breath out of her. "I don't let you finish while he's still out there."

He pulled his hand away, and Harley bristled.

"What?" she snapped, her eyes narrowing in frustration.

"Oh, you change your mind?" the Joker asked, playing innocent and looking extremely pleased with himself until Harley started to climb off him. "Ah, come on," he said, pulling her back into his lap.

Harley kept her eyes narrowed, but she relented anyway.

She would be lying if she said she wasn't enjoying the game they were playing.

"How about I get you halfway there now," he offered, his hands settling on her waist. "And then you can finish when he's gone."

"That sounds like torture," Harley pointed out, shifting uncomfortably.

"You do have a penchant for torturing yourself," the Joker observed drily, his hand sneaking between her legs again, picking up where he'd left off.

"Intellectually," she countered, trying to remain dismissive though her heart started to thud distractingly hard against her breastbone.

"Oh, _really_?" He purred, obviously amused as he started to stroke her inside, making her hips twitch against his hand.

"Not physically," Harley replied breathlessly, her eyes closing as her head tipped back. She'd forgotten that he'd figured out  _exactly_  how to touch her before she nearly killed him, making her feel like she was about to  _melt_ when he touched her there with _just_  the right amount of pressure.  _"_ Oh...  _shit..."_ she breathed, squirming.

"I'm all done out here!" The boiler man called through the door, and Harley quickly scrambled off the Joker, making him giggle as she staggered over to the door. She straightened his shirt to cover herself, trying to ignore the shit-eating grin beaming at her across the room as he popped his fingers into his mouth to taste her.

Harley opened the bedroom door just enough to slip through it, and the boiler man gave her another tight smile as he showed her how the boiler worked and then let her test the hot water to make sure everything was connected right.

When he was finally gone, she headed back to the bedroom, unbuttoning the Joker's shirt as she went. She pushed the door open and leaned against the frame, undoing the last button and letting the shirt fall open as he eyed her across the room, his expression growing dark— and  _hungry_. A shit-eating smirk of her own spread across Harley's face.

"Wanna try out the new boiler?" She lifted her eyebrows suggestively as he stood up and crossed the space between them. His hands closed around her waist before he turned her around and shoved her down onto the mattress.

"I wanna try something else out first," he said, following her down and settling between her knees.

Harley's head fell back, a stupid smile on her face as he started to touch her again.

"Your jokes are terrible when there's no blood in your brain," she sighed happily.

* * *

Much later, they did have a shower, one that ended happily for both of them. It was late afternoon by then, and they started getting hungry, so Harley ventured to the bodega down the street for supplies. But when she tried to get cash out of the ATM, her card didn't work, meaning all she could afford with the spare change in her pocket were two cups of instant ramen because honestly, that was easier than killing the man behind the counter and taking whatever she wanted.

As she walked back, she made a shortlist of reasons the card wasn't working, most of them innocent, though something in her gut told her that wasn't the case.

When she pushed open the front door, the Joker was on the phone in the living room. He'd managed to put his pants on but was still bare-foot and bare-chested, roughly raking a hand through his hair as he looked out the tiny living room window that let in just a sliver of light but also provided them with adequate privacy. From the familiar way he was talking, it sounded like he was on the phone with Lonnie, and Harley tried not to eavesdrop as she poured water from the sink into the ramen cups and popped them in the microwave.

She leaned against the counter, watching the two styrofoam cups rotate around each other, and tried to put her finger on what it was about her credit card not working that bothered her.

She needed to speak to Sofia, but she was pathetically reluctant to leave the Joker behind. She could hardly expect him to be there when she got back, and he clearly had something of his own going on if Lonnie was keeping him on the phone this long. But their day in bed would eventually come to an end, as they always had and always would.

The Joker barked a command down the phone, losing patience with his most loyal and useful minion, and came to lean against the counter beside Harley, watching the pots of noodles rotate.

"Lonnie?" she asked, lifting a knowing eyebrow.

The Joker just rolled his eyes in extreme exasperation by way of answering, which made Harley chuckle. It felt like another wonderfully personal moment, each of which she was cataloging and holding on to. A terrible idea, she knew, but she was only human.

Then he hooked a lanky arm over her shoulders, roughly pulling her into his side, and Harley leaned against him, wondering what would make him want to do that.

What made a violent psychopath, whose primary motivators were avoiding boredom and instigating chaos, want to touch her and have her close while they waited for their food.

Harley no longer practiced psychology, but she was just as fascinated as she'd ever been about his against-type behavior. The only difference was now she had a personal stake in it.

The microwave beeped, and she pulled away, retrieving the noodles and shoving one pot into the Joker's hands without looking at him as she hunted down the forks Leo had sourced the previous day.

"I need to speak to Sofia," Harley informed him, glancing up in time to see him shovel half of the nearly-cooked ramen noodles into his mouth and swallow them without chewing.

"Hmm." The Joker set the styrofoam cup aside before taking Harley's from her, then grabbed her by the waist and hauled her up on the counter, just as he'd done the night before. Harley's knees fell apart so he could stand between them, but she did not allow her legs to curl around his hips. Her hands landed on his bare chest, but she refrained from looping them around his neck. She lifted her chin, trying to look unbothered as the Joker narrowed his eyes at her, tonguing the inside of his cheek thoughtfully.

"What?" she asked warily.

 _"I'm_  guessing... she's at a safe house off Route 44. North of the city..." he suggested, making Harley's eyes widen. "A cottage with blue trim...? That about right?"

Harley shrank back from him, her guard slamming into place where it should have been already. "Maybe," she said cautiously, and he nodded slowly.

"Carmine Falcone's old safe house," he elaborated blithely, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip. " _Classic_  Sofie. Always running to daddy."

"Okay," Harley said, unsure what he was getting at. She was waiting for the _gotcha_ , like when he'd revealed he knew where Maroni had been hiding the whole time she'd been looking for him.

"That's like uh... three-hour drive from here," he added, his head tipping to the side, his expression unreadable. Harley couldn't tell if he was hiding something or nothing. It was impossible to say.

"Okay," she said again, uncertainly.

 _"Okay_ ," he mocked her, rolling his eyes and giving her ass an impatient squeeze. "Well _, c'mon_ , Harl. Let's get this show on the fuckin' road.  _Christ."_

"Do you think you're coming with me?" Harley narrowed her eyes, automatically imagining nefarious reasons to explain why he wanted to get to Sofia.

But the Joker just tipped his head to the side and squinted at her, looking genuinely confused. It looked foreign on his face, and Harley didn't like it.

"I figured you had... shit to do," Harley added weakly, but he just continued to frown at her. "With... Lonnie..."

"Alright," he snapped, losing patience with her. "What the fuck happened when you went out, huh? You're all... _twitchy_."

Harley scoffed and looked away, wanting to believe he couldn't read her that well. She also wanted to be honest with him, which was terrible since she had learned long ago that to survive around him, she had to keep things close to the chest, just like he did.

"Har- _ley_ ," the Joker sang as she glared at him petulantly. "What's goin'  _oh-_ on?"

"My debit card isn't working," she relented, frowning. "Cops and lawyers can't get to Sofia but the Batman can. Last time he went after the mob, he and Gordon cut off their money."

The Joker nodded slowly, understanding. "You think he's got somethin' on her," he said, a statement, not a question.

"Yeah," Harley agreed shortly, searching his face for some inkling of what was going on in that complicated brain. But he was just nodding thoughtfully, humming lightly.

"Like, I said," he squeezed her ass again before pulling her off the counter, and she landed soundly on her feet. "Let's get this show on the road."

It felt repetitive and needy to ask him why he was coming with her, why he wasn't going off and doing whatever it was he had going on, and the idea of being needy made Harley nearly physically sick. So instead, she followed him into the bedroom and wiggled out of her battered suit jacket so she could shrug on her holster and throw the jacket back on over it.

The Joker got dressed too, leaving his suit jacket, waistcoat, tie, gloves, and suspenders in a pile on the floor, so he was left wearing the lurid violet trousers and pale lilac shirt, tucked in neatly and unbuttoned at the throat, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The green dye had washed out of his hair in the shower, and he could almost pass for not-the-Joker, despite the vibrant shades of purple. He pulled a pair of dark sunglasses out of his coat and popped them on, helping the effect of normalcy. Then he picked up the overcoat—an excessive item considering the hot weather—with its many pockets full of knives and other dangerous things and slung it over his shoulder before looking at Harley expectantly over the top of his sunglasses.

She shook her head to clear it and headed for the door, feeling very unsure about what was going on.

* * *

The drive was around three hours, just as the Joker had predicted. Harley drove until they ran low on gas and stopped at a station on the western outskirts of the city. They used the fifty bucks the Joker had on him to fill up the tank—again, easier to pay instead of killing the attendant and take what they wanted—and buy Harley a pair of flip-flops to replace her heels, then he took over for the rest of the drive. He seemed to know where he was going already, something Harley wanted to ask about, but he'd previously refused to answer one question about Sofia, so she had little reason to expect him to answer any of her other questions.

The drive was mostly quiet, but it was a comfortable quiet. After they left the city limits, Harley turned on the radio, feeling she'd been isolated from the world for too long. They were talking about the Dent Act, which was up for a vote again, and Harley inwardly cursed Janice Porter for not being able to do her damn job. But that irritation quickly leaked away when she realized it was a product of needing Janice to follow an agenda Harley no longer wanted any part of. She was tired of policing a corrupt woman, and she truly didn't give a fuck what Janice Porter did.

If the Dent Act passed, so be it. They could put away Yuri and Boris and Marty too for all she cared. Sofia seemed to have a plan up her sleeve. At the end of the day, the Dent Act was based on a lie. Someday, that lie would come out. Then all of Gotham would see how flawed Gordon's precious dedication to justice really was.

Realizing that it didn't matter, that she didn't care, made Harley feel like another weight had lifted off her long-burdened shoulders. She smiled as she gazed out the window at the fields rolling past, the lightness of freedom from responsibility making her smile grow.

"Harvey  _Dent_." The Joker muttered to himself, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

Harley glanced over her shoulder at him. She would have been very surprised if he didn't have plans to pressure Gordon into telling the truth about Dent eventually. Hell, she wanted to see it happen too. People deserved to know the truth.

But Harley wasn't particularly interested in worrying about Gordon today. She braced her arm on the open window and pillowed her chin on her elbow, watching acres of farmland roll by beneath the late afternoon sun. She relaxed into the moment, indulging in the simplicity of driving down an open road in the middle of nowhere with nothing chasing her. Just warmth and freedom as she tried to work out what was growing in the fields they passed.

The Joker wrapped a hand around one of her feet, which she had tucked up on the seat beside her. He tugged it into his lap, his thumb swiping back and forth along the arch of her foot.

Harley looked back at him again. He was running his tongue over his teeth thoughtfully, his eyes on the road, one hand flexing on the wheel while he absentmindedly stroked her foot.

Instead of that cloying giddiness that occasionally affected her, Harley felt a wave of beautiful, blissful calm roll through her. Simple and comforting.

She smiled again and turned back to the window, resting her cheek on her arm and thinking that this might be happiness. It could only last for a few hours longer, but it felt real. It also made that unknown, vast abyss waiting for her seem far more manageable.

* * *

An hour-or-so later, they pulled off the highway onto a dirt road, which continued deep into a field of wheat for about twenty minutes before opening into a wide clearing. A few massive old oak trees lined a gravel driveway leading up to an idyllic cottage with blue trim and a wide front porch. There was a tree fort built into the branches of one of the old trees, and to the side of the house, there was a red and blue swing set where Sofia's children were playing.

Carmine Falcone's safe house.

The Joker parked in front of the porch, shooting Harley an appraising look over the tops of his sunglasses as he turned off the engine. But he said nothing, asked her nothing, so Harley only offered him a rueful smile as she climbed out of the car.

Sofia swanned out onto the porch, wearing a loose top and yoga pants, the latter making Harley's eyes widen as she climbed the steps. Yoga pants were _not_  a Sofia Falcone staple.

"Darling," Sofia greeted her with a quick hug and an affectionate smirk. "I see you brought Pretty Boy along."

She inclined her head toward the Crown Vic where the Joker was lounging behind the wheel, looking bored.

"He wanted to come," Harley shrugged, realizing too late that she had a stupid smile on her face.

"I see," Sofia grinned, then gestured for Harley to follow her into the house. "Let's have a drink while we talk."

Cozy best described the inside of the safe house. Not just in size, but in the warm, old-fashioned way it was decorated. Harley stopped as she passed a family portrait of Carmine Falcone with his children. He was much younger than the man Harley briefly encountered at Arkham, with a full head of dark hair and a roguish twinkle in his eye. Sofia looked as regal and disdainful as a young girl as she did as an adult, while her two brothers grinned toothily for the camera.

"Tragic isn't it," Sofia returned with a bottle of rose and two glasses, her mouth puckering as she looked at the photograph. "I never did get to say goodbye to him."

She shook her head like she thought she was being silly and suggested they sit on the porch to drink and talk. Harley took a seat on an old deck chair with peeling white paint while Sofia poured them each a glass of wine before settling into the chair across from Harley, then she sighed contentedly and looked out across the wheat fields where the sun was beginning to set, an almost dreamy smile on her usually severe face.

Harley found all of this very surreal. She swallowed a mouthful of rose and leaned forward to get Sofia's attention.

"What happened?" She demanded, and Sofia sighed melodramatically, sipping her wine.

"Kolisnyk," she drawled, sounding bored even as Harley's eyes widened. "Our friend Janice Porter has been _persuaded_  to open an investigation into Kyiv Financial per some suggestions from Commissioner Gordon. Somehow, the Batman got Kolisnyk back to Gotham in the last few days. They're going to offer him a deal."

"What kind of deal?" Harley frowned. She had never dealt with Kolisnyk directly but it had been her idea to approach him, and she suddenly felt naïve that she'd believed an ocean between Gotham and an oligarch who knew enough to put Sofia in prison was enough to stop the Batman from interfering.

Also, Janice fucking Porter. That bitch was  _dead._

"The kind where he gives evidence against me, and they allow him to be prosecuted back in Kyiv," Sofia's face puckered unhappily. "Kolisnyk's brother-in-law is Ukraine's Attorney General."

"He gets off," Harley sneered, the hypocrisy of Kolisnyk getting off while Sofia got screwed making her feel sick. Who the hell was the Batman to decide who was worthy of persecution? Kolisnyk was just as corrupt as anyone in Gotham. The Batman didn't give a damn about truth or justice, just his self-righteous agenda.

"Exactly," Sofia shrugged. "With a large media campaign that will ruin my reputation and destroy my brand, of course."

"How are you so calm?" Harley asked, bewildered. "What are we going to do?"

" _We_  are not doing anything, darling," Sofia corrected her with a pointed look. "Vito and I will return to Italy. We have houses, money, friends there, and Vito has family in the government. They can try to extradite me, but they will fail."

"So, you're going on the run?" Harley tried not to let pity creep into her voice.

"A mansion on the shores of Lake Garda and half a billion dollars in a Swiss bank is hardly on the run," Sofia sniffed imperiously. "But I suppose, yes."

Harley bit her lip, unsure what to think about this. The idea that Sofia was just up and leaving was hard to accept, not after she'd been so determined to take her father's place.

"There's more," Sofia continued. "Now that Janice is working with Gordon, she's given him warrants to freeze Kyiv Financial accounts he deems...  _suspicious_."

Harley fought back a scowl, Gordon's moral superiority complex enraging her almost as much as the Batman's hypocrisy. He must have had something  _really_  good on Janice to get her to flip. The woman was  _terrified_  of Harley.

"That explains why my bank card isn't working," she realized, and Sofia waved her hand dispassionately.

"It's just money, darling, it hardly matters," she shrugged, sipping her wine. "Listen, about Janice..."

"She's dead," Harley announced.

"You see, normally I would agree," Sofia frowned thoughtfully. "But I'm feeling a bit of a...  _kinship_  toward her at the moment." She lifted her eyes to Harley's. "They're threatening to destroy her life, just as they're threatening to destroy mine."

Harley bit down on her bottom lip, remembering how relieved she'd been to decide she didn't give a shit about the DA. Killing her might make things worse for Sofia.

"You're right," Harley agreed. "Janice isn't the problem, and I'm sick of playing politics with her... or anyone else for that matter."

"Good for you, darling," Sofia smirked. "Do what you like. C'est la vie, as they say."

"Kolisnyk is the real problem," Harley mused, looking up at Sofia. "Maybe I can get him to keep his mouth shut."

Sofia chuckled drily. "You do have a way of making men do what you want," she observed, her eyes darting out to the driveway where the Joker was unfolding his lanky body from the car, waving his hand gregariously as he spoke on the phone with the sun sinking behind him.

"Don't do anything you don't want to," Sofia continued, more seriously. "You've done more than enough."

"Yeah, but..." Harley pursed her lips, watching the Joker gesture wildly and scrape his hair off his face as she thought about what stopping Kolisnyk from talking would mean. It would mean foiling the Batman's plans. His hypocritical, misguided plans to screw over a person Harley cared about. And besides that, she knew how  _good_  it would feel to stop him from getting what he wanted. "I  _really_  don't want the Batman to win," Harley huffed.

"He is a bastard, isn't he," Sofia made a face. "And his new friend is a little cunt too."

"I'll look into it," Harley promised, her eyes lingering on the Joker as he shoved the phone in his pocket then leaned against the hood of the car, his head tipping back as he waited for her.

"So, what  _is_  going on with Pretty Boy?" Sofia asked, lifting an amused eyebrow when Harley shot her a warning look. "Very kind of you to leave your love nest."

"I have no idea," Harley admitted, trying not to let her thoughts turn toward the inevitable melancholic end where they parted ways. "He just kind of invited himself along today. I don't know what he wants."

Sofia shrugged. "He likes spending time with you. Is that so hard to fathom?"

"Kind of," Harley cringed, knowing it made her sound pathetic. "I've always thought of him as being...  _above_  that kind of thing. He doesn't experience empathy and doesn't form attachments to people—why should he be any different with me?"

"Just enjoy it," Sofia recommended with a cheeky smile. "And if he betrays you, make sure you shoot him in the head this time."

Harley's face crumpled, and Sofia moved closer, rubbing her back comfortingly and topping up her glass until it was almost overflowing with pink wine.

"Oh, darling," she cooed sympathetically. "You've had a rough few weeks with Roxy and Dinah, and now Pam leaving. Would you like to come to Italy? What do you say? We'll spend the rest of our lives drinking wine and sunbathing."

Harley laughed weakly.

"Enjoy yourself," Sofia said again. "Look, he's pretending not to stare at us right now. Look at him."

Harley looked. The Joker was rolling his head from left to right like he was trying to work out a crick in his neck. Her mouth twitched into a smile.

"What happened anyway?" She shot Sofia a curious look. "Why do you guys hate each other so much?"

"Ugh," Sofia rolled her eyes but said nothing further.

Harley narrowed her eyes and leaned in, knowing there was much more to this story. Then something occurred to her that she hadn't thought to ask about before.

"Wait... did you guys used to...?" Her eyes widened as she tried to picture it.

" _God,_  no," Sofia said emphatically, making a face, but as Harley continued to squint at her, she finally relented. "Well, not with  _me."_

"Not with  _you?"_  Harley laughed, amused to see Sofia's cheeks get pink.

"He was this cocky  _arsehole_  who worked for my father," she scoffed dismissively. "I knew he was dangerous, and he was perfectly aware how I felt... so he started...  _shagging_  all my friends..."

"What!" Harley's face split into an incredulous grin. "Wait,  _what?"_

"It was a personal attack on  _me_ ," Sofia sneered. "He knew my father would never see it that way, the slippery bastard. It would just be one more hilarious thing  _Joker_  did.  _Seducing_ women a decade older than him."

Harley's eyes widened. She had never even thought to ask Sofia about the Joker's past even though she'd known there was a history there. She realized now, that she hadn't asked because it would have felt like  _cheating_  to hear it from Sofia instead of the Joker himself.

"I got him back in the end," Sofia added slyly, making Harley's eyes widen further, her thoughts immeadiately turning to the scars. It must have been obvious what she was thinking because Sofia quickly shook her head. "No, no. This was all... a very long time ago. I got sent to Milan, and father eventually lost track of him. No one knows what happened. Well..." she hestitated. "Maybe Marty."

"Shit," Harley sighed, feeling slightly overwhelmed.

"I have something for you," Sofia said abruptly, rising to her feet, and when Harley started to stand, Sofia waved her off. "No, no, I'll get it."

Harley sank back into her chair and looked out at the setting sun. The Joker had climbed back in the car, and when he saw Harley looking, he hung his head out the window. His sunglasses slid down his nose so he was peering at her over the tops, his eyebrows raised in clownish impatience. Harley smirked but didn't respond, and he cocked his head further to the side, trying to get a reaction out of her and successfully making her laugh.

Sofia returned with a small suitcase and two garment bags, which she draped over the back of the chair she'd been occupying. She unzipped one of the bags and pulled out a suit jacket. It was a deep burgundy color and had dramatic darts in the shoulder pads. Like the other jackets Sofia had designed and gifted Harley, this one was loose like a tuxedo jacket, making it easy to hide a gun beneath.

"I thought you could use a little more color in your life," Sofia smirked as Harley thanked her. "And I had two made since you have such a dreadful time not ruining your clothes."

They said goodbye, and Harley genuinely found herself feeling a bit emotional as she hugged Sofia. Roxy was dead. Dinah was gone. Pam was gone. Now Sofia was leaving too. If ever there was an obvious ending to one chapter, this was it.

Harley took the garment bags and the small suitcase—which was apparently full of some 'bits and bobs,' again suggesting Harley had terrible taste and couldn't dress herself—and headed back to the car, giving Sofia one last wave before she ducked into the passenger seat.

"What's the verdict?" The Joker drawled, affecting boredom though Harley was sure he was more interested than he was pretending to be.

"She's leaving Gotham," Harley said as she climbed into the car. "Back to Italy, where Vito's political connections will never get her extradited."

"Sounds boring," the Joker commented drily, putting the car into reverse and backing out the driveway onto the dirt road.

"There's more," Harley said after a few beats of silence, and she kept her eyes on the darkening wheatfields instead of looking at him. "I helped set up a money-laundering scheme through a Ukranian oligarch earlier this year. The Batman got him back to Gotham, and now Gordon's planning on getting him to flip on Sofia in exchange for sending him home."

"Ah, the  _Batman_  goes international," the Joker hummed, his face souring. "Takin' all the  _fun_  out of eastern European corruption so he can stick it to em' back home."

"Exactly," Harley agreed bitterly, staring out the window as they pulled onto the highway. "I think I'll kill him," she added decisively, and the Joker snorted.

"To save your darling Sofia?" he wrinkled his nose and huffed under his breath.

"We can't let the Batman get away with this," Harley countered hotly. "Regardless of what happens to Sofia, we can't just let him _win_."

" _We_?" the Joker shot Harley an amused look, and she blustered, a little embarrassed.

"Kolisnyk is at the MCU," she said instead of addressing his comment. " _I'm_  going to go get him tonight."

"Uh... how are you plannin' on doing that?" the Joker asked, his voice dripping with condescension. "You have no money, no men, and  _everyone_  wants to kill you."

Harley shrugged carelessly. He was right, but having some of the shit she'd been carrying around off her shoulders made her feel like she could do _anything_ again. She didn't question herself; she just knew what she needed to do and would do it. Maybe it was the Joker's presence too; maybe she'd siphoned off some of that free-wheeling no-shits-given mentality. "I'll figure something out," she said.

The Joker just hummed warily, but there was a smirk lingering on his lips that made Harley think he knew she could do it too. Then she remembered what Sofia had told her, and she started to chuckle under her breath, eyeing him slyly.

"Why are you laughin' about, huh?" He demanded, glancing between her and the road.

"Sofia told me about your...  _escapades_  with her friends," Harley grinned, loving the way he inhaled sharply through his nose and slumped down in his seat.

"Congratulations, Harl," the Joker shot her a nasty smile. "You have the same taste in men as cunty mob princesses."

"Don't worry, Pretty Boy," Harley smirked. "I still believe all your other secrets are way more exciting."

The Joker pursed his lips, and Harley could tell he was fighting a smile of his own. He shot her a lingering look out of the corner of his eye then yanked the wheel hard to the right, pulling the bulky old car off the road, making it bounce and jiggle until they rocked to a stop in a thicket of wheat. He turned off the engine and swiveled to face Harley, crooking two fingers at her.

"C'mere," he ordered, and Harley happily slid across the long front seat and into his lap, immediately lowering her mouth to his. He had her pants and shirt unbuttoned within minutes, groping and stroking her until she was squirming before he flipped her onto her back so she was lying across the long front seat. They shuffled out of their clothes as much as the small space would allow, and then he was inside her, his hand braced on the seat beside her head as their hips snapped together. Harley came quickly, pawing at the door behind her head while the Joker buried his face in her neck and huffed into her skin.

When they'd pulled themselves together, snickering as they straightened their clothes, the Joker navigated the car back onto the now-dark road, and Harley kicked her feet up on the dashboard, feeling fantastic. They sat in comfortable silence for about twenty minutes before the Joker hummed thoughtfully, drawing her attention.

"Ya know... I think I got an idea," he growled, prodding the inside of his cheek with his tongue. "For the  _oligarch_."

"Oh?" Harley lifted an eyebrow, trying not to show him how pleased she was that he was going to help.

"You can't just  _dangle_  foiling the Batman's plans in front of me and expect me to stand on the sidelines," the Joker pointed out, shooting her a meaningful look.

Harley laughed lightly. "What's your plan?"

"This guy's like, basically Ukranian royalty, right?" the Joker said gruffly, growing more gregarious with his hands as he spoke. "The Batman's not exactly... _inconspicuous_. You think this guy's people won't come lookin' for him? Or at least the pigs wouldn't be  _surprised_  if his people came looking for him?"

"His embassy wouldn't just leave him to sit in a cell if they found out where he was," Harley nodded, realizing what he was getting at. "So what, we dress up like Ukranian lawyers coming to rescue?"

"Sure," the Joker shrugged, waving a hand at the dark road. "The _details_  don't matter too much. You just gotta sell it."

"That gets me into the MCU," Harley mused, picturing the station's layout. "But the Batman needs to know it's me. And then we need to make sure we don't get caught once he shows up."

"I always find a few homemade bombs make for a good exit plan," the Joker shot her a smirk. "Those Lucky Hand assholes  _totally_  thought you were gonna blow yourself up to stick it to em'."

"It's funny how painting your face like a clown makes people think you'll do crazy things," Harley grinned knowingly at the Joker, and he mirrored her expression out at the open road.

 _"Very_  funny," he agreed, his eyes darting between her and the road a few times, his smirk slowly growing.

Harley sighed happily, trying to keep her gaze on the road instead of staring at the Joker as they sped back to Gotham.

He looked happy too, and it was nearly intoxicating.

* * *

It was almost 3 AM when the Joker pulled the taxi up outside the MCU, the street nearly deserted aside from a utility van parked up the road and the occasional police cruiser coming and going from the underground parking lot.

Harley stepped out of the cab, straightening the over-sized gold wireframe glasses that made up a key part of her disguise, along with a peach-colored suit with huge shoulder pads and a nipped-in waist. Sly and a new henchman named Big Tuna stepped out of the cab beside her, also wearing glasses and suits that were at least three decades out of style, and toting briefcases. Harley lifted her chin and started toward the entrance of the MCU, the boys following close beside her, all of them doing an exaggerated walk that was all shoulders.

They stormed through the front door, straight into the bullpen which was half empty, busy for 3 AM

Harley looked around for Gordon and Stephens, the only two people she was worried about coming face to face with, though she suspected she'd be able to fool Stephens. But it was all detectives and beat cops lugging cups of coffee and looking tired.

"Vee are lawyers from zee Ukranian embassy!" Harley announced in an accent that fell somewhere between German and Russian. It got the attention of cops loitering in the bullpen, who looked around at each other, bewildered. "And vee know you are keeping our countryman Anton Kolisnyk hostage here illegally!" She continued, lifting her chin imperiously

"M'am, I think there's been some kind of misunderstanding," a sergent approached them warily. "What did you say your name was?"

"I am Oksana Velysnykaya," Harley improvised, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Vee know you are keeping Kolisnyk in your interrogation room and vee demand to see him freed...  _Now_!"

"Interrogation?" The sergeant looked around at a pair of detectives that had come up behind him. "Are we keeping someone in interrogation?"

The detectives exchanged a wary look, and Harley suspected these were the good cops she'd heard so much about.

"You don't even know who is in your own station—ha-ha-ha-ha!" She threw back her head and laughed like a Bond villain, Sly and Big Tuna following her lead. Then she stopped abruptly, narrowing her eyes at the detectives. "It seems your Batman cares not for international laws! Take us to Kolisnyk now, unless you are prepared to start a war! Zee United Nations will hear of this!"

Both detectives' eyes widened, international relations far beyond their paygrade. The sergeant and beat cops watched, bemused and fascinated as the detectives waved Harley, Sly, and Big Tuna through the bullpen and down the short hallway that led to Gordon's office and two interrogation rooms. They unlocked the door to one of the interrogation rooms and stepped aside for Harley to stride past, shooting them disdainful looks.

Kolisnyk was sitting at the table in the middle of the room, his fat cheek braced on his fist as he slept sitting up. He wasn't bound, and there was a stack of empty pizza boxes on the table beside him. If Gordon was still keeping him on ice, maybe he hadn't talked yet.

Harley cleared her throat loudly, and Kolisnyk jolted awake, his eyes widening when he saw the bizarrely dressed trio standing in front of him

"Give me a moment with Mr Kolisnyk," Harley snapped, leading Sly and Big Tuna to shuffle the two detectives back out into the hall.

Kolisnyk asked Harley something in his mother tongue, which she ignored. Now wasn't the time to find out what he had or hadn't said—it was time to send a message.

Harley slung the briefcase up on the table and popped it open, grabbing the paint pallet waiting inside as she stuffed the gold glasses into her jacket pocket. Kolisnyk sputtered in confusion as Harley quickly applied a few messy smears of warpaint without a mirror, and he started to get to his feet, making demands as she put the pallet away.

"Look, buddy," Harley sighed, picking up her gun from the briefcase and switching off the safety before she pointed it at his head. "If you think I know Ukranian, you're barking up the wrong tree. Now let's go, come on—I said, come on! _MOVE IT!"_

She grabbed him by the arm, but he resisted until she held the gun to his head and grabbed a handful of his suit jacket, forcing him forward. Kolisnyk easily outweighed Harley by a good two-hundred pounds, but with a gun to his head, he moved faster than she would have pegged him capable.

Out in the hallway, Sly and Big Tuna had pulled on their clown masks on and were holding up their briefcases, displaying a pair of hastily-built bombs inside. They were facing off with the 'good' detectives who now had their guns out, ordering the clowns to back up despite their obvious disadvantage. The cops were forced back when Harley dragged Kolisnyk out into the hall, laughing in their faces as Sly and Big Tuna held them off with the bombs.

Ah, it was a good plan.

* * *

**A/N: I love this chapter. It's got it all.**

**I love the next chapter more, actually.**

**Now there's only three left!**

**Next: Harley deals with her oligarch problems with a little help from the Joker.**

**Review and comment, my people xo**


	30. Chapter 30

The Harlequin

30.

* * *

The Joker drummed his fingers on the taxi's steering wheel as he glanced at the clock for the fiftieth time in five minutes. He hadn't played getaway driver in a very long time, but Harley had insisted the pigs would clock him. She had a point, but he still liked to think he could walk in and out of the MCU as he pleased. People  _never_  noticed things they weren't looking for. But this was Harley's job, so while she dressed up as a Ukranian lawyer, he was playing driver in jeans and a brown leather bomber jacket. But the same nervous energy that came with every job was coursing through him now, and he was  _itching_  to get out and fight.

It only took two hours to put everything together once they got back to Gotham. Sly and Big Tuna had nothing better to do, and the Tailor opened his doors whenever the Joker asked, so picking up a few strange outfits had been easy. Harley had been so funny preparing her character. Holding her chin high and swinging her shoulders as she tossed her hair and whipped those big gold glasses off.

"Ya really gotta walk like that, huh?" he taunted her as she pranced back and forth across the Tailor's shop, her shoulders swinging hilariously.

"I am from zee Ukranian Embassy! How dare you speak to me about my walk!" She huffed, tossing her hair.

And she kept the character up when he kissed her, and she still kept doing it when he backed her into the dressing room and got that frumpy skirt up around her waist, but she finally relented once he had her up against the wall, teasing her back into the relaxed little thing he liked so much.

The Joker checked the taxi's clock again, his fingers drumming away when at last, he heard a spattering of machine-gun fire inside the MCU. He licked his lips and ducked his head to watch the utility van up the street pull into a position in front of him. Its doors slid open, and six men in police uniforms trooped out, heading for the underground parking garage.

That was a little something the Joker had been working on the past couple weeks, and while it may have been premature to pull that thread for Harley's MCU break out, what the fuck was the point in having a card to play if you were gonna hold it back at an opportune moment?

The doors at the front of the MCU burst open then, and Harley flew out, dragging Kolisnyk by the collar of his shirt, her gun pressed to his neck. She was dressed in her weird Ukranian lawyer costume with the out-dated pink suit and pussy-bow blouse, but there was no doubting she was Harley Quinn. It wasn't just the warpaint; the Joker could  _feel_  it as he watched her blow past him with a man three times her size tripping over himself to keep up.

The Joker grabbed the gearshift, preparing to make a move as he watched Sly and Big Tuna shout at the cops that they'd blow everyone up if they had to. Then Harley kicked Kolisnyk into the back of the van before jumping in herself, shooting one last look over her shoulder at the Joker before she ducked inside.

He grinned and ran his tongue over his bottom lip, the nervous energy building inside him almost boiling over as he shifted the car into drive and park and then back again, his feet tapping the brakes and gas.

Right on schedule, the van peeled away from the curb, and six police cruisers driven by the Joker's men pulled out of the underground parking lot, taking off after the van. The Joker pulled away from the curb more discretely, glancing at the cops standing impotently on the sidewalk before he laid his foot down on the gas to catch up with the van, staying a safe distance from the pretend police chase.

They only made it about a block before that tell-tale  _whirring_  started behind him. The Joker glanced in the rearview mirror and clocked the Badpod speeding up the street behind him, driven by the girl the papers were calling 'the Canary.' Word on the street was if you spotted her, the Batman wasn't far behind. Like a canary in a coal mine.

The Joker fell back as she passed him, not giving her a reason to suspect an old yellow cab, and kept his head angled to the side as she went flying past him after the van.

The van reached the intersection at the end of the block, where two more identical vans joined the chase. They weaved amongst each other like a game of 'hide the ball' as the Canary approached them from behind. The Joker watched her try to pass the police cruisers to get to the vans, but they kept bobbing in and out of her path, making it impossible for her to get clear. She got frustrated and let off a small rocket that hit the street, sending up a shower of asphalt.

The Tumbler arrived then, whizzing in from a backstreet and T-boning one of the vans, but not the _right_  van. The cruisers fishtailed and screamed in protest, making it impossible to see what was happening just in time for the van Harley was actually in to pull into an alley.

The Joker neatly pulled the cab into the same alley, stomping down on the brake as Harley staggered out of the back of the van, dragging Kolisnyk by the collar of his shirt. Once she was clear of the van, it reversed backward, swerving around the taxi and out into the street where it headed back into the fray. Meanwhile, Harley was pushing Kolisnyk into the back of the cab, snapping and swearing at him until he was finally bundled inside.

The Joker braced his arm along the back of the long front seat and watched, amused as Harley lifted one of Kolisnyk's legs out of the way so she could get the door shut.

"Drive!" She barked at him, making the Joker chuckle as they took off down the alley and pulled out onto an abandoned Downtown street.

"What did you tell Gordon!" Harley snarled. Kolisnyk's corpulent body was half sprawled across the backseat, and Harley was sitting on his bloated stomach, holding a gun to his head. "What did you tell him!"

The Joker tried to dial down his grin as his eyes darted between the road and the rearview mirror to watch Harley's impromptu interrogation. His tongue wiggled against the scar splitting his bottom lip, and he held back a giggle as Kolisnyk babbled pathetically in his mother tongue. Harley was all hyped up, adrenaline making her hot-headed and mean as she tried to get information out of a man who was too terrified to be useful to her.

It took about ten minutes to get over the bridge and onto the freeway, during which time Harley threatened Kolisnyk into a quivering mess, and at last, she realized it was futile and knocked him out by slamming the butt of her gun against the side of his head.  _God_ , she loved some good old fashioned blunt force trauma. Imagine if she could get away with carrying a hammer around under those suit jackets. That'd be bad news for the Joker, let alone anyone else who got in her way.

"Ugh, I'm starving," she groaned suddenly, leaning forward to press her face against the plastic partition separating the taxi's front and back seats. Her war paint smudged against the plastic, leaving the impression of half her face there, and the Joker passed her the pack of baby wipes waiting for her on the front seat. She sat back to clean herself up, sighing again.

"Marty'll have food," he informed her, realizing he was hungry too. They hadn't eaten anything since those noodle cups hours earlier, and it had been a busy, sex-and-driving-and-job-planning twelve hours since then. That had been what made Bruno so agreeable to have around. Obviously not sex, but everything else. He'd been efficient, organized, loyal, terrifying, and reminded the Joker to eat. All of those were useful qualities, which was why Bruno stuck around as long as he did.

Harley was all those things too—maybe  _loyal_ was still up for debate—with the added bonus of being in possession of both a body and a brain the Joker couldn't see himself getting tired of anytime soon. Usually, repetition bored him, but talking to Harley and fucking Harley seemed to be the exception to that rule.

Not that Harley could be expected to fill a role as pedestrian and behind-the-scenes as Bruno's had been. No,  _Harley_  deserved to be center stage.

He thought about pulling over to the side of the road and inviting her into the front seat, the idea of being inside her while she squirmed around on top of him as appealing as ever. But apparently, she had a rule about other people being in the vicinity, which meant the Oligarch ruined that opportunity. Besides, the Joker needed to get back to Marty to speak to him about  _events forthcoming._

She remained quiet in the backseat—uncharacteristically quiet, as she'd been prone to since she blew up the Lucky Hand—probably getting lost in her thoughts and her  _plans_  as she had always been inclined to do. The Joker only had so much energy to engage her when she was like this, so he left her to it, his thoughts drifting from having Harley wrapped around him to  _events forthcoming._

There was  _so_  much to  _do_.

Marty lived in Gotham Heights, a neighborhood that had been a kinda fancy, wholesome place where the upper-middle class lived before the depression. Then the dereliction of the Eastside swept in, and those people moved north or out of the city if they couldn't afford Midtown. Marty had lived there for years, as long as the Joker knew him, and it was his best-kept secret: inner circle only.

The street Marty lived on was lined with huge, old oak trees that had been growing there for a century or longer. The houses were big and decades-old, in need of repairs, and had mostly been split into apartments if they weren't abandoned, condemned, or invaded by squatters.

The Joker pulled into Marty's driveway, the taxi coming to a screeching halt outside the open garage. He climbed out from behind the wheel, now in need of sustenance more than ever since Harley reminded him about food. He turned around to find her trying to drag the fat, unconscious man out of the taxi on her own, and he stopped to watch, a chuckle growing in his throat.

She was  _so_  funny.

Harley took a step back, and planted her hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes. "Are you just going to stand there or help me?" She demanded.

"Stand here," he replied, smirking lazily as she got all huffy and started trying to get the Oligarch out of the taxi again.

"What the fuck is this?"

The Joker turned to find Marty standing in the open garage, his arms crossed and his expression sour as he looked between the Joker and Harley.

Oh  _right,_ his precious secret safe house. Harley didn't have an invite.

"Hey Marty," Harley called, looking awkward as she offered him a wave.

The Joker sniffed, finding the situation tedious and remembering that he was hungry. He loped back to Harley and gestured for her to get back in the taxi to push while he pulled, and he ended up doubled over wheezing with laughter watching her clambering over the Oligarch's belly to get back in the car. She was laughing too, even though she was also hissing at him to shut up, and Marty was radiating contempt from the garage as they got the Oligarch out of the car, taking longer than it should have because they kept breaking down laughing.

Once the Oligarch was on the driveway, they stood over him, lips pursed, trying to figure out what the hell to do with him now when Harley had a burst of inspiration. She jogged over to Marty, clasping her hands together and making herself look all nice and beguiling, probably flashing those big blue eyes as she asked Marty to borrow a mechanic's creeper if he had one, which he did. Then they hauled the Oligarch onto the creeper and rolled him into the garage, both Harley and the Joker sputtering with laughter, and by the time they dumped him on the ground beside a pole, Harley was literally crying.

"Who the fuck is this?" Marty asked, looking more bewildered than pissed off.

"Oligarch who was gonna rat out Sofia Falcone," the Joker said shortly, fishing out some zip ties from the pocket of the brown leather bomber jacket. He helped Harley prop the Ukranian up against the pole and secured his arms behind it, then Harley found some duct tape on the side of a workbench—"Oh, help your fuckin' selves, why don't you," Marty complained—and slapped a piece over the oligarch's mouth so he couldn't scream for help when he woke up.

With that task completed, the Joker turned to Marty again, and he was intrigued to find a man he considered to be a loyal henchman there to do his bidding, staring at him incredulously. The Joker frowned.

 _"What_?" He snapped aggressively, meaning it both as a question to be answered and a method to snap Marty out of whatever internal crisis he was experiencing. It worked for the latter, not the former.

"Hey, Marty," Harley said, all sweet and friendly again, with a note of an apology in her voice. "We haven't eaten in a while. Have you got anything we could snack on? Or just some coffee?"

Marty nodded slowly and gestured for them to follow him into the house. "Yeah, yeah. I got some fuckin' coffee."

The Joker shot Harley an impressed look, considering her ability to placate and charm a genuine asset to add to her rapidly expanding list of assets.

They followed Marty into the house, most of which was dusty and yellowed with age, all dated furnishings from the 1970s that had likely come with the house. The kitchen was the same, with orange linoleum and a lot of wood paneling, but not so dusty as the rest of the house. The Joker had spent hours in this kitchen, working through problems and discussing plans with whoever was most appropriate to speak to. Marty was useful, not least because he knew when to make himself scarce, even in his own home. Now he was exceptionally useful because he was hauling a pizza box and two cartons of Chinese food out of his old, avocado-green fridge.

The Joker dove into the Chinese food, adding fuel to his body while Harley nibbled on pizza more discretely. She was self-conscious, aware Marty didn't want her there, or maybe for another reason, he wasn't sure.

When he'd finished consuming the calories that would get him through the next twelve hours, the Joker turned to Marty and fixed him with a pointed look.

"What's Slimeball sayin'?" He demanded, running his tongue over his teeth.

Instead of answering, Marty's eyes drifted to Harley, narrowing suspiciously, and the Joker heard her chair move back as she got up from the table.

"I'm just going to go check on..." she trailed off, taking a step back, radiating uncertainty, which the Joker disliked on her. The idea that _Marty_  sending her dirty looks would be enough to make her leave a room didn't sit well with him.

The Joker pointed at the chair she'd been occupying. "Sit," he ordered, and of course, she got huffy, which was always funny.

"I'm not a dog," she snapped but sat, anyway.

The Joker returned his attention to Marty, chuckling about Harley and licking his bottom lip reflexively. "Well? Slimeball? I ain't got all day, Marty."

"He's uh, he's in," Marty said, purposefully not looking at Harley. It made the Joker want to pull her into his lap so Marty would be forced to face her, but the idea quickly passed when Marty continued. "He's got access to the Garcias' house, the wife, the security detail, the whole shebang."

They went on to discuss Mayor Garcia's security detail in great depth via information Slimeball had collected over the last twenty-four hours since joining the team. There were at least three other members of the security staff they could swap out for clowns short notice. That left two that would need to be killed the old fashioned way on the night. That was fine with the Joker, shooting them would be a good moment for the Mayor to realize what was about to happen to him. A little blood and  _brains_  to keep him on his Mayorly toes.

"And the uh... the helicopter guy?" The Joker skipped ahead. "What's goin' on?"

"Sergey. He wants more money. Says he doesn't trust us," Marty lit a cigarette, shaking his head. "Fuckin' Russians."

"Sergey?" Harley piped up for the first time in almost forty minutes.

"Yeah," Marty said warily as the Joker turned to look at her, curious about her input. She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling thoughtfully, weighing something up.

"Do you care about spending more money?" She lifted an eyebrow.

"No," Marty exhaled a plume of smoke. "We care about him fuckin' us over."

"I'll talk to him," she shrugged.

" _You'll_  talk to him?" Marty shot her a disbelieving look.

"He loves me," Harley shrugged again. "He's a pyromaniac. That's why he's being iffy with you over a helicopter. If you were asking him to help you blow up a building, it'd be a different story."

"Sounds like my kinda guy," the Joker drawled, turning back to Marty. "Next," he snapped. His eyes were growing heavy, not the burning with exhaustion type but the lazy kind where there wasn't imminent action or danger, just more  _talking_. He tried to do some quick mental math to work out how long it had been since he slept. A few hours at Harley's place, which had been enough to keep going. Before that... two or three days.

"Those Odessas we flipped," Marty continued. "They flipped back. They're at a safe house in South Channel. Dough Boy was gonna take care of it but—"

"Not without me," the Joker snapped, pulling out a burner phone from the leather jacket's pocket. He found Dough Boy's number and fired off a threatening text telling him to get his ass to Marty's. Dough Boy was a good find. He was big and stupid and pretty damn good against the Batman. He'd been at the Prewitt building the night of the ferries and was the only one who got away. "Next."

"I got six more of my boys working their way into the GCPD," Marty said, shooting Harley another loaded look like this was especially privileged information. "That'll make twelve all in by the time we're ready."

Oh, _right_. Harley was notorious for owning the cops on Sofia and Penguin's behalf. Or at least she _had_  been. Now she was broke. The Joker turned to look at her.

"You got any pigs you still trust?" He narrowed his eyes at her, watching her purse her lips. Trying to decide if she should lie, he realized.

"One," she said at length, meeting the Joker's eye.  _Interesting_.

"Good," he bit out, spinning back to Marty. It was time to wrap this thing up. "Get fuckin' Lonnie two-hundred grand by tomorrow afternoon."

"Fuckin' Lonnie," Marty rolled his eyes and crushed out his cigarette. "Yeah, I'll take care of it, boss."

The Joker stood abruptly, their conversation over. He was already thinking about what needed to be done the next day, and estimated eight hours of sleep would do it.

Harley stood too, looking uncertain again. The Joker grabbed her by the elbow and nudged her out into the hallway when she didn't make a move on her own, and she shot him a look that might have qualified as _naughty_  for pushing her around, which was a far cry better than  _uncertain._  It made him reach for her again, slinging a possessive arm around her from behind.

"Uh, J, there's one more thing," Marty said reluctantly, and the Joker closed his eyes, sighing into Harley's hair.

"Second floor, second door," he muttered to her before releasing her into the dark hallway. He saw her shoot him a bemused look, but she went anyway, not complaining for once in her life.

The Joker turned back to Marty, folding his arms and leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, both eyebrows raised in his most unimpressed look.

Marty edged closer, looking uncertain as he tried to formulate a sentence.

What the fuck was everyone so  _uncertain_  about tonight?

"Talk," the Joker snapped, and Marty sighed.

"What the fuck is going on there," he asked, nodding to the hallway where Harley had just disappeared.

The Joker frowned at him, not understanding, and Marty gave him that incredulous stare again, throwing his hands up.

"Are you two  _together_  now or what?" Marty shook his head as he said this like he felt ridiculous. "She fuckin'  _shot you_ , man."

"To-geth-er," the Joker tried the word out thoughtfully. He'd never considered it as an option, because 'together' implied an institution of its own kind, and the Joker didn't dabble in anything of an institutional variety. His understanding of 'together' was it was one of those societal constructs, like marriage and love, both of which Harley found as superfluous as he did. Constructs were boring, but Harley was not. That was the twist that turned this whole concept of  _together_  on its head.

It seemed Marty's primary problem with this idea of  _togetherness_  was that she'd shot him, but that little blip hardly mattered to the Joker. It only made Harley  _stronger_ in his eyes, and kind of scared him too. There was always a satisfying  _tingle_  of the fear in the back of his mind, telling him he still didn't _truly_ know what she was capable of. That he needed to stay on his toes around her, and  _never_ underestimate her. That little tingle would never get boring.

"Eh," the Joker shrugged apathetically, feeling this was a good enough response to a question based on such a pointless premise, and didn't warrant any further examination, then turned to head after Harley and the bedroom he'd been crashing in of late.

Everything upstairs at Marty's house was musty and old-smelling, but considering the Joker frequently caught up on sleep on the floors of filthy squats and damp warehouses, musty wasn't at the top of his list for poor sleeping conditions. Harley had left the door to the large room ajar, and when he pushed it open fully, the light from the hallway allowed him a glimpse of her sleeping on her side, facing away from him.

Her left shoulder blade was still a little mottled, as was the bruise on her ribs, but they didn't seem to be bothering her anymore. They were hardly what drew his attention, though. It was the gentle curve of her spine that made the Joker stop and tip his head to the side, eyeing up the expanse of her back.

Then she did one of those loud, earth-rattling snores she was utterly oblivious to, and he chuckled quietly before pushing the door shut, the room surrendering to darkness. He followed the sound of her snoring over to the bed, thumbing off the buttons on his shirt and shrugging out of it, then kicked off his jeans before falling onto the bed gracelessly, taking a moment to pull off his socks before he finally collapsed. He'd intended to reach for Harley, but when his head hit the pillow, he knew he was out for the count.

Eight hours, he thought, sleep immediately claiming him.

Normally, the Joker would pass out quick, get the sleeping out of the way without dreaming, then his eyes would open, and he'd be ready to go.

But when he next came to, it was slowly, hazily, half his brain still lingering in a place that wasn't quite reality. There was a weight on his stomach, and something warm and wet on his neck, sucking his pulse lightly. He lingered in half-sleep, indulging in the sensation, and gradually becoming aware of the fissures of arousal rolling through his abdomen, making his cock hard as it rubbed against something impossibly soft.

 _Harley_.

He inhaled sharply, and she moved her mouth from his neck, up his jaw to his ear, the softness of her tongue making the Joker's eyes roll back in his head as his hands landed on the tops of her thighs, giving her a squeeze. She lifted her head to look at him, her blonde hair fluffy and almost glowing in a slant of sunlight sneaking through the curtains, and she smiled lazily before folding forward to kiss him.

Her mouth tasted bitter, but that hardly mattered when her tongue was so tantalizingly soft against his. Then she was wiggling her hips back, taking his cock in her hand so she could guide him to where she wanted him. His hands slid up to her hips, his fingers tightening around her as she took him into her warmth, going agonizingly slowly until she was finally wrapped around him, and she made a soft, contented sound.

The Joker watched, feeling weirdly mesmerized as she braced her hands on his chest and pushed herself up, her pelvis rocking slowly against his. He exhaled shakily through his nose, and her eyes snapped open. Then in a gut-wrenching twist, she smirked down at him knowingly. Her head fell back, and she kept on smiling, and he heard her laugh softly, making his hands tighten on her body.

And right then, something clicked for the Joker _._

He did not want to let her go.

_Oh... shit._

* * *

There was a blissful five to ten minutes of lying naked and sweaty in a tangle of sheets—not very clean or new sheets, Harley noted—before the Joker's phone started ringing.

Harley watched him roll away from her to answer it, flipping to business mode so swiftly it was jarring in her lazy, blissed-out mood. She bit her lip, trying to push away the melancholy that had been sweeping over her in random waves for the past thirty-six hours, making her feel unsteady. Off balance. But in between those moments, she was happy, and that had to count for something.

The Joker stood up, snapping and complaining, which could only mean it was Lonnie on the other end of the line. He wedged the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he jumped up and pulled his pants on, then left the room without a backward glance.

Harley sighed and ran a hand through her hair, willing away the feelings— _all_  the feelings—before she pulled herself out of bed and slipped into the en suite bathroom for a shower.

As she cleaned herself up, she thought about Pam, wondering where she was. Usually, she wouldn't have thought it impossible to find anyone. Harley had the resources to find  _anyone_  who needed to be found. But if anyone could slip under the radar, it was Pam. And Harley was running low on resources at the moment.

She dried off with one of two crusty towels hanging on the back of the door. There was one on the floor too, which was covered in black and red paint. Then she changed into the dark-red suit trousers Sofia had given her, along with a stretchy white camisole from the suitcase, her wet hair leaving see-through splotches down her back.

When she was dressed, she looked in the mirror and pursed her lips. She could see a job in front of her, but this time it felt like tying up loose ends instead of another step up a ladder. The question, as it always was, was what to do next.

Step one was sliding into the flip-flops from the gas station. Harley had been wearing unpractical high heels for months, mostly for effect, just like the warpaint. But she was too lazy to keep trotting around on stilts, and she was sick of making life harder than it needed to be.

Step two was to sneak quietly downstairs, trying not to make herself noticeable if the Joker and Marty wanted privacy to discuss their plans for the Mayor. Step three, she went to the kitchen for a glass of water. Step four, she headed for the garage to complete her mission.

The door to the living room was open, though, and she caught sight of the Joker shirtless, barefoot, and pacing on the phone again. This time it was more curt, less familiar. A henchman, probably. Marty was sitting on a dusty loveseat under the window, watching the Joker pace. He caught Harley's eye as she passed, and she quickly looked away, focusing on how she would approach the task at hand.

The garage was gross and hideously messy. The crap piled up along the walls suggested multiple residents had abandoned their possessions there, and Harley couldn't imagine any of it belonged to Marty.

Kolisnyk was still tied to the pole where she'd left him, his legs splayed out in front of him, his head back against the pole as he blinked at the ceiling, his mouth still taped shut. Harley was glad she'd tied him up in such an agreeable position for what she had in mind.

When he saw her, his eyes widened, and she could see him start to panic. Harley offered him a grim smile, almost bashful as she picked her way around an old lawnmower and some furniture, then squatted down beside him. She placed the glass of water on the concrete floor, keeping her eyes on Kolisnyk as she pursed her lips.

"Hi," she greeted him awkwardly and gingerly peeled the duct tape away from his mouth, wincing sympathetically.

He was staring at her, looking bewildered instead of afraid now, and Harley lifted the glass of water to his mouth, tipping it forward but not spilling it on him until he ducked down to swallow a few much-needed mouthfuls. When he'd finished, he pulled back to stare at her again, his eyes widening when Harley plucked the packet of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and placed one between her lips. She lit the cigarette with a lighter in the box, wrinkling her nose at the acrid taste of tobacco on her tongue, then offered him a drag.

Confused, Kolisnyk bowed forward to take a puff, then pulled back, exhaling a plume of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

"Look," Harley sighed, running her free hand through her damp hair. "I'm sorry about last night. I've been having a really rough time lately."

She offered him the cigarette again, and he took another, longer drag off of it, the nicotine calming him down as Harley hoped it would. He still looked confused, but she could see some tension ease out of his shoulders as he exhaled another long plume of smoke.

"My friend got murdered a few weeks ago by a complete sicko," Harley continued, the corners of her mouth turning down. "Then my best friend just up and took off, and I have no idea where she is."

She switched to the water so Kolinsnyk could gulp down half of the glass as Harley sighed heavily. Then she set the glass aside and offered him another drag off the cigarette, shaking her head miserably.

"And now my ex is back in the picture, and he is..." She closed her eyes and sighed again as Kolisnyk blew out another line of smoke. "God, he's so confusing. I have no idea what's going on. That's the problem across the board. I have no idea what the hell is going to happen."

Kolisnyk was eyeing her warily, but he no longer looked terrified or even bewildered. Almost like he understood but didn't entirely sympathize.

"So, what happened anyway?" Harley asked, giving him another hit off the cigarette. "With the Batman?"

"He jump me," Kolisnyk scowled in heavily accented English. "I having dinner with my brother in law. He and Canary girl took out our guards. Knocked me unconscious. When I wake up, I am on a plane, then they knock me out again, and I wake up in America."

"Jesus," Harley rolled her eyes. "He has boundary issues."

"Так," Kolisnyk agreed with a sneer. "Then they try to get me tell them about Sofia Falcone, but I say nothing."

Harley eyed him warily, feeling like he was giving this up too easily. "Why?" She asked simply.

"I do not give them satisfaction," he spat. "Cocky fucking Americans think they run the world. No. We do not make deals with terrorists."

"So, you didn't say anything to anyone?" Harley raised an appraising eyebrow, finding it interesting that he thought of the Batman as a terrorist.

"No," he shook his head. "I like Ms Falcone. I would not betray her."

Harley nodded slowly, thinking that he was being naïve, or maybe just a narcissist if he felt he could get away with money laundering schemes even with the Batman aiding American law enforcement. There were all kinds of things they could do to get him to talk. Avoiding it for forty-eight hours while he was being held illegally did not mean he wouldn't talk eventually.

"I saw the dress Sofia's designing for your daughter's wedding," Harley smiled gently, reaching behind her back for the gun she'd tucked in the back of her pants. "It's beautiful."

Kolisnyk nodded, smiling as he thought about his daughter like he wasn't chained to a post in a garage in a foreign country.

"She is beautiful girl," he told Harley, still smiling.

"I bet," She smiled back, then whipped the gun out and shot Kolisnyk between the eyes before he could blink.

His head flew back with the force of the bullet, blood and brain matter spraying against the side of Marty's Camero. An errant drop of blood hit Harley's shoulder, a circle of scarlet staining the strap of her white camisole.

She huffed in annoyance, tucking the gun back in her pants as she rose to her feet, rubbing at the stain with her thumb.

" _Jesus_ ," the Joker's voice made her spin around, her eyes widening as she tried to work out how long he'd been standing there. Long enough to hear her complaining about him?

He cocked his head to the side, a slow smirk forming on his lips.

"I can't tell if you're scarier when you're all sweet or when you're pissed off," he observed, lifting his eyebrows.

"I'm hardly sweet," Harley said, looking down at Kolisnyk's body and thinking  _'sweet'_  wasn't just a strange word to describe her, but a strange word for the Joker to have in his vocabulary.

"Uh...  _yeah,_  you are," the Joker smirked, reaching for her elbow and yanking her close before he bent down to kiss her.

Harley felt a wave of calm rush over her, the kind that had been so prevalent over the last thirty-six hours. The kind that made everything seem simple, even impossible ideas like being casually kissed by the Joker for no good reason.

When he pulled away, he looked down at Kolisnyk's body and inhaled shortly through his nose, looking disappointed.

"Well _, that_  was kinda anti-climactic," he hummed.

"Yeah," Harley agreed, following his gaze down to the fat Ukranian. She bit her lip, working over an idea she'd been playing with for a while now. "I think I'll rob his bank."

The Joker chuckled, tonguing the inside of his cheek as he shot her a look that might have been affectionate but equally could have been condescending, or maybe both.

"Oh,  _are_  you?" He drawled.

"Yeah," Harley shrugged, feeling better about the idea the more it settled in. "I'm broke, and the government is just going to seize all that cash. Including five million of  _my_  money."

"You're broke, and you haven't got any men," the Joker folded his arms again and raised his eyebrows. "And you haven't got Red to help you either. How're ya gonna rob a bank?"

"I'll figure something out," Harley shrugged, refusing to concede that he made a good point. "I always do," she added.

"Hmm," the Joker rolled his eyes to the side thoughtfully, then back to Harley. "I haven't robbed a bank in a while," he said coyly.

"Oh?" She folded her arms, imitating his posture as she tried not to grin stupidly. "Don't you have something _Mayor_  related to stay on top of?"

He shot her an exaggerated offended look. "You say that like I can't  _multi-task_ ," he scoffed.

"I figured you'd have more important things to take care of besides robbing a bank," Harley shrugged, again wondering what this plot to kidnap the Mayor revolved around. There had to be another layer apart from just wanting to drum up drama or make the Batman chase him around Gotham.

"I need  _one_  more thing to fall into place," the Joker said evasively, looking away briefly before swinging back to squint at her. "But I want fifty percent."

"Twenty," Harley countered, narrowing her eyes.

"Fifty," he growled, grabbing her arm again.

"Twenty-five," Harley pulled her arm away easily and brushed her hair over her shoulder. "And one percent for each of the men who come along."

" _My_  men," he corrected her pointedly as she turned to head back into the house.

"For now," Harley tossed a smirk over her shoulder, and the low growl that followed her sent a delighted shiver rolling up her spine.

* * *

They started planning the robbery immediately after that. Marty made a pot of coffee, and they sat around the kitchen table discussing the basics for most of the afternoon. Six clowns had infiltrated the MCU through a combination of bribery, murder, and technology. They had provided the distraction for their escape the night before, and for the robbery, they would provide the primary getaway vehicles and more distraction. Marty wasn't happy they might be 'burning' their sources so quickly when he'd expected to use them in the Mayor plot, but the Joker waved him off, telling Marty not to get so attached to things.

Harley recommended a meeting point on the east side of the Midtown Bridge, a body shop run by a guy called Texas Joe, who she used to collect taxes from for Penguin. The Joker would provide the safecracker, a Bolivian man people called the Lemon, since Harley had lost track of the man Sofia lent her back when she was robbing banks.

It was too late for an alarm specialist, but those guys always wanted too much money and added too much time to the bill. They were in good shape though, and Lonnie had a little something that would take care of alarms and any other electronic devices on the block, once again proving his worth even if he was a pain in the ass.

The Joker wanted two days to get things lined up, but Harley insisted they could get it together by the following afternoon with their getaway drivers and safecracker already secured. She didn't  _love_  how much she was relying on him for the practicals, but she reasoned once she was no longer cash-poor, she wouldn't need his help again. She also knew he didn't consider this 'help.' The Joker just wanted to rob a bank for shits and giggles.

Harley could tell Marty was slowly warming back up to her. The night before had been horrendously awkward with him shooting her suspicious looks and guarding his words. He had only recently betrayed her by defecting away from Sofia—whom he had never liked—back to the Joker, and then Harley and the Joker had shown up at his house hauling an oligarch who posed a threat to Sofia. It all got a bit messy if you were looking at it from the standpoint of alliances and enemies, but the world wasn't black and white.

There was another reason it was awkward. Marty had forgiven Harley for shooting the Joker, but forgiveness and trust were two different things. Harley sensed Marty didn't trust her not to do it again.

The Joker was, of course, oblivious to all of this, the politics of human nature beyond him.

Around 4 PM, Harley and the Joker headed to Lonnie's, the Joker explaining that he'd hacked some server to get them the blueprints for Kyiv Financial's bank on Wall Street as Harley navigated the Crown Vic to Midtown. She did not fail to notice how free-flowing he was being with information, openly discussing a plot to kidnap the Mayor with her in the room the night before, and now filling her in more than he typically would.

It was easy not to agonize over the 'what's next' question when she was busy. They were robbing a bank together, and after that, Harley didn't know what would happen, but she was in business mode now, and worrying wasn't helpful.

Lonnie had taken over the honeymoon suite again, and it was in more disarray than Harley ever remembered seeing it. When he saw her step out of the elevator at the Joker's side, his eyes widened incredulously, making Harley smirk because it would piss him off. Lonnie looked terrible, his skin was ashy, and he had lost at least twenty pounds, his cheeks gaunt. Harley remembered finding his stash of opioids and weed in the bathroom and wondered if he had moved on to stronger stuff while the Joker was away. That thought wiped the smirk off her face. Drug addicts were not reliable.

"Hey, Harley," he greeted her caustically. "Long time, no see."

"Hey, Lonnie," Harley replied with just as much venom. "You look like shit."

The Joker frowned at Lonnie. "You  _do_  look like shit," he observed, and Lonnie sputtered indignantly, spinning his chair back around to his desk and grabbing two rolls of blueprints, then shoving them at the Joker

"Here's the plans for the bank and for the..." he trailed off, shooting Harley a wary look that was almost identical to the one Marty had been sending her the night before when he hadn't wanted to discuss Mayor-kidnapping plans in front of her.

"Uh huh," the Joker grunted thoughtlessly, tucking the blueprints under his arm. "You got that other thing we talked about?"

Lonnie opened his desk and handed the Joker a smartphone with a cracked screen.

"I made an app," he said, looking pleased with himself, but the Joker just grabbed the phone and shoved it in the front pocket of his jeans before turning to leave, when Harley had an idea.

"Hey, Lonnie," she said, trying for more friendly and patient this time, and just a  _little_  beguiling. Lonnie was a cynical asshole and would see through it if she laid it on too thick. "Have you seen any footage of the Canary fighting?"

Lonnie folded his arms and fixed Harley with a speculative look as she leaned against his desk, offering him a placid smile, offering peace, and eventually, he relented.

"Yeah, the forums are blowing up trying to figure out the tech she's got," he admitted, his interest obviously piqued.

"The forums?" Harley raised an eyebrow.

"Nerds are always trying to break down the Batman's tech," Lonnie shrugged. "At least what we can see from the footage that exists out there and what witnesses say."

"Interesting," Harley hummed, her eyes shifting to the Joker, who had cocked his head to the side, watching her curiously. She looked back at Lonnie, all business. "She had these electrified batons. They hurt like hell, and I could hardly stay on my feet. I think they were charging on her belt. "

"You fought her?" Lonnie's looked reluctantly impressed.

"I lost," Harley corrected bitterly. "I think I  _could_  have killed her if she didn't have those batons. Have you got any ideas?"

"Well, they're basically high tech tasers, so you can either siphon the power off of them or overload them with a more powerful charge so they break down," Lonnie mused. "You just need to jolt that belt with enough power to shut them down."

"How do I do that?" Harley frowned, and Lonnie pursed his lips thoughtfully, then stood and walked over the couch where he shuffled around for a while before returning with a cattle prod.

 _"Wow_ ," the Joker said, looking delighted.

"You just have this lying around?" Harley grinned, accepting the cattle prod and examining it. "It's not exactly discrete, is it?"

" _Discrete,"_  the Joker scoffed as if the concept disgusted him.

* * *

As the sun got low, they headed for Sergey's brownstone Downtown. Harley dropped him a quick text to let him know she was coming by and needed to speak to him about a job, and when he opened the door, he grinned affectionately at her because Harley always gave him the most fun jobs.

"Harlequin lady," he drawled by way of greeting, and he was about to add something else when the Joker stepped into place beside Harley in the doorway.

Sergey's eyes widened a fraction, but he mostly kept his surprise to himself as he looked the Joker over quickly. Harley realized he'd never seen the Joker out of his purple get-up and warpaint if he'd ever seen him in person at all. The black jeans and brown leather jacket couldn't have been less Joker-esque, and his hair was back to its natural sandy-blonde instead of green. But Sergey still knew who was standing in his doorway, offering him a roguish half-smirk.

More subdued now, Sergey stepped back to let them into his apartment. Harley headed for the wobbly kitchen table where they usually did business while the Joker inspected a bookshelf of motherboards and wires, a similar collection to what Lonnie had scattered over his living room, but better organized.

"Nice place ya got here, Serge," the Joker drawled, squinting at an antique grenade while Sergey sat with Harley at the table, and poured them both a shot of Stoli vodka.

Sergey knocked back two shots for courage while Harley sipped hers, pleased that he was reacting so well to the Joker's presence.

"I was worried you got blown up," Sergey told her, raising an appraising eyebrow. "But here you are, safe and sound."

"Here I am," she agreed with a smile. "Can't say the same for Leo, though."

"Ah, da," Sergey nodded, his bottom lip jutting out. "Is too bad. He was good cook."

"Yeah, he was," Harley sighed, feeling the faintest stirring of regret, which might have been for selfish reasons.

"He made me brownies once," Sergey added. "Delicious."

"He made you brownies?" Harley laughed. "When?"

"Eh, he bring me money for the napalm job and brought brownies too," Sergey smiled, a little nostalgically as he shrugged. "But is no use crying over spilled milk, no?"

"No," Harley agreed, bracing her elbow on the table and fixing Sergey with a smirk. "So, I hear a friend of mine is buying a helicopter off you?"

"Da..." Sergey shifted uncomfortably, looking away, and Harley realized he thought she'd been sent in to negotiate a lower price for his services. She felt she could do better than that to keep him on their side.

"I think we'll need to add another helicopter to that order," she said, improvising. "We need a big fiery distraction. You think you can help us out?"

Sergey was grinning slyly at her, the pyromaniac in him delighted that she was playing to his pathology. "You always have best jobs for me, Harlequin lady."

"Eh," Harley shrugged, catching the Joker looking at her behind Sergey's shoulder. "How much for two choppers and a bomb?"

"For you?" Sergey pursed his lips. "Ten thousand."

"Done," Harley agreed, beaming at him as she stood up. "Marty will be in touch with the specifics."

When they were out in the hall, heading for the elevator, the Joker slung an arm over Harley's shoulders.

"For you, ten thousand," he mocked, doing a bad impression of Sergey's accent. " _Christ_ , you've got that guy wrapped around your little finger."

"You catch more flies with honey," Harley pointed out, twisting to smirk up at him as they stopped in front of the elevator. "And you keep saying how sweet I am."

"Less like honey," the Joker sneered, his hands slipping around her waist to yank her close, making Harley stumble into him. "More like... rotten  _fruit."_

"Rotten fruit?" Harley laughed.

The tiny silver elevator arrived, and the Joker backed her into it, pushing her up against the wall as he absentmindedly thumbed the button for the ground floor. Harly threaded one hand into his hair, pulling it tight as she rose up on her toes to graze her lips over his. The elevator door pinged shut as he fisted a handful of her hair in return and ducked down to nuzzle her neck before he finally kissed her.

They got to the ground floor too soon, and with a couple of hours to burn before they had to meet (intimidate, threaten, coerce) Bullock, Harley was about to suggest they kill time at her safe house. But it felt excessive sneaking off to fuck him every spare second she could find. She didn't want him to feel like she was distracting him, and by that same token, she didn't want to  _become_  distracted or too comfortable with the idea of lounging in bed with him whenever she felt like it.

So she told him she was hungry and he directed her to an old-fashioned chrome diner called Ed's near the harbor Downtown. It was dark by the time they parked, but the diner was still bustling with working-class men wearing hard hats and coveralls. Harley was unsure about going to an actual restaurant for food—she had been thinking drive-thru or a food truck—but the Joker insisted, pushing her out of the car and then leading her up few short steps and through the entrance.

"This feels strange," Harley hissed once they were seated in a booth, her eyes darting around the busy dinner nervously. "It's too normal."

The Joker rolled his eyes. "We gotta eat, don't we?"

"Yeah, but this is so... out in the open," Harley countered, watching a flurry of waitresses wearing teal uniforms with white aprons rush around with orders. "We're sitting in one place instead of constantly moving."

"If you keep lookin' around like you're on the run, someone's gonna notice," the Joker snapped, shoving a menu at her, then gave a raspy laugh when Harley used the menu to cover her face as she tried to pick out something to eat.

She decided on an omelet which felt healthier than burgers or pancakes after eating little else but junk food for days. The Joker went in the opposite direction: a burger  _and_  pancakes, and when he ordered from the waitress, he screwed up his mouth and narrowed his eyes, affecting a strange, southern accent that Harley couldn't place. But the whole performance transformed him into a completely different person for all of thirty seconds. Then the waitress was gone, and he relaxed back into the Joker once more.

"What was that accent?" Harley asked.

"Wyoming," the Joker waggled his eyebrows like Wyoming was an exotic place, and slid down in the red vinyl booth, kicking his feet up on the seat beside Harley and prodding her thigh. "So, we've got a big fiery distraction now, huh?"

"Would you ever turn down a big fiery distraction?" Harley pointed out, and he rolled his eyes from right to left thoughtfully.

"Fair point," he conceded, his eyes darting back to her. "That outta buy us some time when we're getting off the roof."

Harley had some idea of what he was talking about. From what she'd heard of his and Marty's conversation, she suspected they were planning to kidnap the Mayor at some kind of event—at a location, Lonnie had provided blueprints for—and the plan was to escape off the roof via helicopter. There were also the clowns posing as beat cops, some of whom would be used in the bank robbery the next day to aid in their escape. Harley had questions about this Mayor plot, but she didn't expect them to be answered when she wasn't an active participant in the plan.

She didn't really know  _what_  she was.

When their food arrived, the Joker inhaled his portion like he always did, like it was fuel to top up a dwindling supply instead of something to enjoy. Harley worked her way through her omelet, feeling good about herself for choosing vegetables like an adult. Then, without really meaning to, she shared this banal, boring thought with the Joker, almost certainly the topic of conversation his nightmares were made of.

"Vegetables," he rolled his eyes. "They don't keep you goin' for long enough. You need something  _solid_  to stick to your ribs."

"Sure, if you want to die of scurvy or gout," Harley snickered, watching him shove a handful of fries in his mouth and nearly swallow them whole.

" _Scurvy_  can't kill you," the Joker replied, pointing a sharp finger at her. "Neither can gout. You're makin' that up."

"I am not," Harley laughed. "You die of scurvy if you want, I'm not going out that way."

"Ohhh, I would  _hate_  to see you go that way," he growled, his eyes rolling up in his head, and Harley got the impression he'd thought about this before.

"How would you like to see me go out?" She smirked, leaning forward on her elbows gamely.

He pursed his lips thoughtfully, then folded forward to mirror her posture.

 _"Sharks,"_  he said, at last, squinting at her out of one eye as his mouth snapped into that sly, private smile. " _Definitely_  sharks."

* * *

It was close to midnight by the time they got to the Stacked Deck. Harley parked around the corner, and they walked up the street together in companionable silence. The bar was always busy this late, full of crooks and thieves and corrupt men, which was why Bullock fit in there perfectly. Harley stood out more than the Joker for a change, her dark red suit trousers, camisole and flip-flops more eye-catching than his leather and denim.

Bullock was sitting at his usual rickety little table by the door, hunched over a half-empty pint of beer with a line of shot glasses by his arm, half of them empty. Harley looped her arm through the Joker's elbow, tugging him over to Bullock, and she heard his amused little hum seeing what kind of man they were dealing with.

"Hiya, Bullock," Harley grinned, dropping onto the squat stool across from him. He jumped like he always did.

"Jesus Christ, Harley," he pressed a hand over his heart. "You scared the shit outta me."

The Joker kicked another stool up to the tiny table and dropped onto it, immediately offering Bullock a wide, cheesy grin, showing off a line of yellowed teeth.

 _"Hiiii,"_  he purred.

Bullock visibly paled, the alcohol-induced rosacea on his cheeks draining away as he realized who was sitting across from him. His watery eyes darted over to Harley, then back to the Joker, his face completely frozen, his body stiff like he was paralyzed.

"Calm down, he doesn't bite," Harley rolled her eyes.

"Not unless she asks me too," the Joker added lasciviously, drawing a scandalized scoff from Harley that made him smirk.

Bullock's eyes widened even further, his chin sinking into his neck like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

"Have a drink," Harley encouraged, pushing one of the still-full shot glasses across the table, and Bullock quickly downed it, followed by the rest of his beer. When he'd finished, he shook his head, blinking rapidly, and finally looked up at Harley.

"So, uh, what can I do for you guys?" he asked nervously, his eye twitching like he wanted to look at the Joker but couldn't bring himself to.

"What can I  _do_  for you guys? Now  _that's_  good service," the Joker grinned nastily and folded forward onto his elbows so he was looking up at Bullock. "Harley speaks so  _highly_  of you, Harv. I just wanna get to know ya is all. Have a couple of drinks, and uh... swap stories. I got this one about a  _fisherman_ — it  _kills_  at parties."

Bullock's eyes darted to Harley, pleading with her like he was trapped and didn't know what to do. Harley lowered her hand to the Joker's thigh and squeezed, digging her nails into the rough denim to make a point— _Stop toying with my minion_ —while also fixing Bullock with an irritated glare.

"Grow a pair, Bullock," she ordered, pushing the second shot of whiskey across the table to him, which he knocked back before settling in again. "Now," she said, more conversationally, bringing out the honey. "Thank you for checking on Sofia for me. That was incredibly helpful, and I appreciate it."

"Uh, yeah, no problem," Bullock rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "She alright?"

"She might be," Harley said evasively, glancing at the Joker to find him squinting thoughtfully at Bullock. Like a cat contemplating a mouse. "How are things at the station after last night's breakout?"

"A lotta the guys wouldn't count that as a breakout," Bullock informed her drily. "Considering that Ukranian was brought in by the Batman _illegally,_  and we didn't have anything to hold him on but Gordon's word."

"Funny how you pigs swing back and forth on the concept of what's  _legal_ ," the Joker observed, lifting an ironic eyebrow.

"I'm just sayin'," Bullock held up his hands defensively, still not looking at the Joker. "People didn't like it, and uh, you didn't blow anyone up, so mostly the boys are pissed at Gordon."

"Interesting," Harley pursed her lips, thinking Gordon kept making the wrong moves. He was backing himself into a corner. She pulled her cracked iPhone from her trouser pocket, ignoring Bullock and the Joker as she fired off a text to Vicki Vale requesting an update on her story, then turned her attention back to Bullock. "So those cruisers that chased me last night," she said, watching Bullock knock back a third shot. "They all make it back okay?"

"Uh, yeah," Bullock frowned, looking confused. "What d'you mean?"

"Nothing," Harley said with a breezy smile, gifting Bullock with plausible deniability.

"So uh,  _Bullock_ ," the Joker planted his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together, resting his chin on his knuckles. "You gotta wife... kids? Tell me about yourself, huh?"

"Nah, my wife and me been split up a few years," Bullock said, looking to Harley for help. She rolled her eyes. "No kids."

" _Right_ ," the Joker nodded sympathetically, his eyes glittering. "And was it the  _drink_  or the  _job_  that sent her packing?"

Harley shot him a withering look that he ignored, one side of his mouth curling up meanly.

"What do the boys down at the station think about the Canary?" Harley interjected, slapping her hand down on the Joker's thigh and squeezing him hard, but he only wiggled his stool closer to her so their legs were pressed together, making it obvious feeling him up was ineffective.

"Who the fuck knows what to think," Bullock groused. "Suddenly the Batman's got some teenage girl with him? That don't make  _any_ kind of sense... But damn, Harley. She's efficient. There's been more arrests in the last week than in the last couple  _months._  And today Janice Porter agreed to prosecute some of those cases. If that doesn't have the Batman written all over it, I dunno what does."

"Sounds like they're going to clean up the city," Harley rolled her eyes. "Now all they need to do is pass the Dent Act."

"It's only a matter of time," Bullock complained. "Gordon's been lobbying the Mayor nonstop. Ever since his wife left him, it's all Gordon's thought about. And now the Mayor's determined to get it passed in time for this  _Harvey Dent Day_  gala they're throwin' at the Ritz in a few days."

"Gordon's wife left him?" Harley's eyebrows jumped, surprised she hadn't already known this, and filing away the Harvey Dent Day gala, which she was already aware of, for later inspection.

"Took the kids and went to her sister's in Chicago last month," Bullock confirmed drunkenly.

"And you didn't think to tell me this?" Harley's eyes narrowed, just to keep Bullock on his toes.

"Oh, uh, I, uh, I," Bullock sputtered, but Harley waved him off, not in the mood to torture him.

Harley allowed the Joker to play with Bullock just a  _little_  bit after that, but he quickly grew bored without her attempting to stop him. Once outside, the Joker took a call from Marty, snapping irritably at him over the phone as Harley unlocked the Crown Vic and slid behind the wheel. She watched him pace in front of the car, raking a hand through his hair as Marty filled him in on something, then he stopped and threw his hands up before pacing again, making Harley chuckle.

She was in an unbearably good mood, one the pessimist in her pointed out could not last, and would end in a crash if she didn't prepare herself for the end. But that was hard after a day of plotting a bank heist with the Joker and simply enjoying his company. He seemed to be embracing whatever it was that was happening between them, at least for the moment. The easiest thing to pin what had changed in recent days was the sheer...  _grabbiness_. He was constantly grabbing her yanking her around, almost  _possessively_. Harley knew that sounded terrible, but it was because he had no boundaries. He just did what he wanted when he wanted to do it.

And what he wanted was to touch her and pull her close.

Watching him pace and talk, Harley reminded herself that this was temporary. After the next afternoon, she'd have the cash to set herself up and figure out her own thing. She didn't know what that meant for her and the Joker, once this moment of alliance was over. But she did know that two days ago, she had woken up thinking she only had a few more hours with him, and two days later she knew she had at least one more day with him, and instead of being stressed out about what would happen next, she was indulging in the present.

It was about enjoying the ride, not worrying about where she was going.

She credited the Joker for helping her find this state of mind; it was a kind of freedom she hadn't thought herself capable of.

She just had to be strong and believe in herself. Those were the pillars of how Harley defined herself. No matter how her life changed, she knew that about herself. When this moment ended, she would still be that person.

The Joker jumped in the car then, sighing through his teeth as he settled into the passenger seat, looking agitated.

"Everything okay?" Harley asked warily.

"Mmm...  _politics_ ," he sneered, licking his bottom lip quickly. Harley expected that to be the end of it when he added, "Marty's bein' a fuckin' drama queen about his super-secret safe house. Dough Boy's waiting for us there now."

Harley's eyebrows rose, surprised that Marty would choose something like the safety of his safe house as his hill to die on. She voiced this out loud, and the Joker shrugged like he couldn't care less about how Marty felt or what he chose to do. Harley turned the car on, again wondering why the information was so free-flowing of late.

"Let's go get rid of these Odessa jackasses," the Joker announced, making Harley chuckle.

She drove them back to her safe house in Burnley Arms where most of his suit was still on the floor. The thirty-minute drive was quiet and companionable, both of them deep in thought when Harley pulled up to the project building. It was supposed to be a quick stop to pick up his suit because Dough Boy was waiting and Marty was being a drama queen, but Harley hardly thought those were good enough reasons to be on time. She didn't feel a  _responsibility_  to be on time.

She waited for the Joker to close the door before she pushed him up against it, sliding one arm beneath his jacket to wrap around his back as she rose on her toes to brush her lips over his. Harley felt his chest vibrate with a quiet growl when she sucked his bottom lip between her teeth, and she slid one hand up his chest to his neck, her fingers curling around his throat, feeling his pulse leap against her thumb. His head tipped back against the door, one eyebrow raised at the kinky posturing, a sly smile dancing on his lips that Harley mirrored as she stretched up to kiss him properly, her fingers flexing on his neck.

It escalated quickly from there.

* * *

About an hour later, they returned to Marty's, fully dressed, painted, and ready for action to find Dough Boy waiting for them. They drove out to South Channel where they'd been tipped off about the Odessa gang who'd flipped back to their original loyalty. It was a pretty standard massacre-slash-message operation, made far more manageable because the Odessas didn't know they were coming.

The message was unmistakable: if you said you were with the Joker and flipped on him, you were screwed. So they killed half of them for ease and cut the other half's faces into Chelsea Smiles, leaving it up to fate if they would survive. If they did, all the better. It let other thugs know you didn't get away with that shit.

It was almost dawn by the time they got back to Marty's, finding the six clowns who had infiltrated the MCU waiting for them much to Marty's chagrin about his super safe house being blown. It was his own fault; he should have known better than to complain about it.

Despite the adrenaline still pumping through Harley's veins, her eyelids were heavy as Marty rolled out the blueprints to the bank and a map of Midtown on the kitchen table. It was surreal having six men dressed as beat cops standing beside her, nodding as she gave instructions and pointed out Texas Joe's Body Shop on the east side of the Midtown bridge. They would meet there twenty minutes before the job started, and meet there again to split up the cash after some diversionary driving.

"Everybody understand?" She looked around the kitchen, eyeing each face in turn, looking for signs of trouble that would be better dealt with now than later. Her eyes landed on Marty, who was nodding along with a sour look on his face.

 _Shit,_  she thought. She needed to clean this  _political_  mess up before it turned into something unfortunate.

The MCU clowns disbanded, and Dough Boy headed for the living room to catch some shut-eye, leaving Harley with the Joker and Marty. The Joker was standing beside her, still eyeing the map and blueprints thoughtfully, his painted eyes rolling back and forth across the table. Harley couldn't tell if he was judging her strategy as inadequate, or maybe thinking this was a big waste of time after all.

Then, without looking away from the map, the Joker held his hand out to Harley expectantly.

Harley's fingers twitched, the urge to take his hand so intense she almost didn't question it. Instead, she balled her hand into a fist at her side, and the Joker slowly turned to look at her, blinking owlishly.

"I need to talk to Marty," she said stiffly, inclining her head toward the hall. "You sleep."

He frowned, then shrugged carelessly before loping out of the kitchen, leaving them to it.

Harley turned to Marty. He was leaning against the kitchen sink, lighting a cigarette, and avoiding looking at her. She took a seat at the kitchen table and drained the rest of the coffee she'd been drinking to give her another burst of energy. Harley had a lot of time for Marty. He had helped her when she had no one else. Then she had helped and protected him — multiple times.

"What's going on, Marty?" she asked him bluntly. "This moodiness is pretty out of character."

"Moody," he chuckled bitterly, shaking his head. "I dunno how Bruno put up with all this shit."

Harley's eyes widened, but she waited for Marty to grab a stray ashtray off the window sill behind the sink and sit beside her at the table, the maps and plans still spread out there.

"Talk to me," she encouraged.

"Ah, ya sound like a fuckin' shrink," he complained, taking a long drag off his cigarette as Harley laughed.

"Gotham University revoked my PhD but they forgot to take away my therapy license," she smirked. "So, if you're interested, the doctor is in."

Marty chuckled again, this time shooting her an affectionate look through the haze of smoke hovering around him. "Ah, it's no bloody wonder he can't stay away from you."

Harley made a face to hide her reaction to such a dangerously exciting observation.

"You shouldn't have complained about the safe-house," she told Marty with a sympathetic smile. "You know he has no boundaries. Now he's going to use this place for any big meeting he wants."

Marty's expression soured. "Bruno's place up in Otisburg was like that. Started out as a safe house. Eventually, it turned into a bloody bed n'breakfast for the crazies he had makin' those bombs."

"Get a new place," Harley recommended, faintly worrying about her Burnley Arms safe house. Would the Joker blow that too? "Don't tell him about it. Or me. You need somewhere you can go to decompress from all this. It's too crazy to be in it twenty-four-seven, you know? You need a personal life."

"What about you?" Marty frowned, looking genuinely concerned. "You two been stuck together like glue the last few days. How are you gonna be with him when he is your personal life?"

"Well," Harley shifted uncomfortably. "This is just temporary."

"Temporary," Marty repeated, his frown deepening, almost a little pitying. "Does he know that?"

"Everything is temporary to him," Harley countered. "He thinks a few steps ahead but not any further than that. That's what makes him so..." She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, a string of different adjectives on her tongue, but in the end, she settled on: " _Fascinating_."

"Fascinating, huh?" Marty's lips pinched together unhappily. "You know I'd never turn on him, Harley. I got my reasons for that. But I gotta tell ya, I'm worried about ya both. I'm worried you'll kill him when you're in one of yer moods. And I'm worried he'll drive you fuckin' crazy with his bullshit."

"I'm happy when I'm with him," Harley shrugged, looking at the red lines she'd drawn on the map. "I feel... calm and balanced with him. Satisfied."

When she looked back up at Marty, he was staring at her, the concern and worry replaced with something more like astonishment.

"But you still consider this temporary, huh?" He asked, looking confused.

Harley offered him a gentle smile and gave his hand a friendly pat as she got to her feet. Melancholy was prodding the edges of her tired brain, and she needed to sleep so she could be on her toes for the job.

"Get your own place," Harley told him as she drifted into the hallway, shooting him one last wry smirk. "Doctor's orders."

Harley dragged herself upstairs, girding herself against her feelings as she approached the door of the room they were staying in. It felt like a lived-in room, her suitcase open in the corner, her fresh suit hanging over one chair while the Joker's clothes were scattered all over the floor. He was in bed on his back, an arm braced behind his head, his eyes closed, perfectly still in sleep as he was incapable of being when he was awake.

Harley shrugged out of her jacket then pulled her camisole up and off over her head before shuffling out of her pants. The room was mostly dark aside from a sliver of dawn sneaking through the heavy curtains, just enough to find her way to the bed and climb in beside the Joker. But once she was horizontal with a decently soft pillow under her head, she found it hard to find sleep. Something Marty said refused to stop rattling around her brain.

_No wonder he can't stay away from you._

The Joker's hand suddenly clapped down on her hip, startling her out of her thoughts.

"You take care of Marty?" he asked, his voice raspy though he was clearly wide awake in the dark beside her.

"Yeah," she said quietly. "He won't be a problem."

"Mmm...  _good_ ," he said, sounding amused. "Stop thinking so loud."

Harley laughed softly, grabbing his hand off her hip and pulling his arm over her without thinking. There was a long pause wherein Harley realized she was instigating  _spooning_  of all fucking things, and she swallowed a lump of disappointment as she waited for him to pull away. But then he shifted forward until he was pressed up against her back, his arm tightening around her as he buried his face in her neck.

Harley felt him release a breath against the side of her neck, and she released a quiet sigh of her own, trying not to overthink it.

* * *

Harley and the Joker arrived at Texas Joe's Body Shop a little after 4 PM to find a collective of clowns waiting for them. Sly was there, as was Big Tuna, the huge Samoan man who'd helped Harley steal Kolvisky from the MCU. There was also the Lemon, who was supposed to be a quality safecracker, and Jose, a weathered Hispanic man with an elaborate set of cornrows. It would be six of them in the bank, plus Dough Boy and Marty driving the vans, and two MCU clowns helping them escape from the scene.

Harley and the Joker jumped out of the back of the van Marty would be driving, their warpaint fresh and their suits on the wrinkled side. A little afternoon delight before heading out had them both in excellent moods, and they smirked at one another before heading into the garage where the clowns were waiting.

Marty spread out the blueprints for the bank out over a workbench and laid out the plan to the clowns while Harley and the Joker watched from the back, their presences felt even as they let Marty take the lead. Harley was used to being front and center in moments like this, rallying the troops and leading the charge. But her troops had always been brainwashed men, and if the Joker suggested it was better to let Marty take care of the admin, then Harley would gladly follow his lead.

At 5 PM on a Tuesday, Midtown traffic wasn't too bad, but it was by no means deserted. The clowns waited to pull their masks on until they reached the top of the bank's steps to avoid attracting unwanted attention. Harley kept her head down even as the Joker took the opposite approach, looking over both shoulders and making himself visible to any bystander with the inclination to look. He shot Harley a guarded look as he pulled out the phone Lonnie had given him, then with a few swipes of his thumb, the phone released an EMP that would knock out anything electronic not encased in lead (like the Lemon's gear) on the block.

Once inside the bank, Sly and the Joker took out the security guards while Harley bolted toward the bank tellers and their customers. Her job was crowd control, so with Big Tuna and Jose behind her, she jumped up on the first bank teller's desk, the low heels of her boots stabbing into the old wood. She squatted down and grabbed the teller by the collar of her shirt, ignoring her screaming as she dragged her over the counter and tossed her in a squirming heap on the floor.

"Excuse me!" Harley shouted, stomping down the counter as Big Tuna and Jose pulled the other tellers out of their seats. "I'm in need of some customer service—my credit card's not working, and I can't get my money out!" She kicked the last teller in the face hard to make her point, then grabbed him by the tie before he fell off his chair, handing him over to Big Tuna to dump with the others.

"I'm just a nice lady trying to make a living," Harley continued blithely, skipping back the other way with her gun leveled at the customers cowering on the floor, putting on a nice little show to keep them scared and distracted. "You guys know what that's like, don't you? Just trying to live your truth and be  _blessed_? That's all I want! But I can't get my fucking  _money_!"

The hostages started off screaming and swooning and shouting things like,  _"Oh God, it's the Joker and Harley Quinn!"_  But these were citizens of Gotham, and they weren't stupid enough to think an excess of screaming and shouting would do anything but make their situation worse. They huddled together on the floor, some of them flat on their bellies, some of them sitting with their backs against the desks. Some of them cried while others prayed, and some sat staring wide-eyed at Harley where she stood above them, glaring and rocking from foot to foot, waiting for one of them to make a move she deemed unacceptable.

Sly and Jose emerged with two bank managers from the offices, shoving them in with the herd of customers and tellers. The bank employees looked around at each other helplessly when they realized the silent alarm hadn't been triggered, that the bank was in a blackout. And when they heard the telltale buzzing of their vault being broken into, they all seemed to deflate in mutual acceptance.

"Don't look so sad, guys!" Harley enthused, jumping off the desk and landing soundly on her feet. She cocked her head to the side, squinting down at the bank managers. "You  _do_ know what kind of bank this is, don't you? The oligarch _money laundering_  kind. Think of this as like... a  _cleanse."_  She smirked as the bank managers looked at each other, and she saw one of them shrug incredulously at his colleague. "Get all those  _toxins_  out of your system, huh?" she added, narrowing her eyes at them.

The Joker appeared then, a bounce in his step as he stormed out from the back room where the vault was located, his face grim and his shoulders hunched. The group of hostages collectively leaned away from him, pressing themselves into the floor or against each other like his very presence repelled them. He snapped at Sly and Big Tuna to help Jose and the Lemon with the money, then tucked his gun away as he swanned up to Harley's side, a lazy smirk blooming on his lips.

He wanted to  _play_.

"Whaddya got here, Harl?" He drawled, looking down at the bank managers. "Normally, these  _mob_  bank types are a little more uh...  _chatty_."

"Not these guys," Harley sighed performatively, folding her arms. "You'd almost think they don't  _care_  what happens to all that money."

"You're just stealing from yourselves!" One of the bank managers sputtered then, his eyes on Harley. "It's your money, isn't it? Why are you going through all this trouble!"

Harley heard the Joker hum happily like he'd been waiting for someone to step out of line so he could get involved.

"Hey, I got an idea," he squatted down and grabbed the bank manager by the front of his shirt, hauling him to his feet. "Why don't you join us, huh? We're always looking for fresh new  _talent,_  and you seem like a fella who's got his  _priorities_  in order..."

"My priorities?" the bank manager blurted incredulously, leaning away as the Joker leaned in, squinting at him out of one eye. "You're insane!"

"He's not actually," Harley pipped up, grinning. "I'm his doctor, I should know."

The Joker let out one of those hysterical peels of shrieking laughter, right in the bank manager's face. The man's eyes flew open and his jaw went slack, the Joker laughing right in his face too much for him to handle, and he turned to look at Harley horrified.

"You're insane too! How could you be with this monster!"

"Oh _, yawn_ ," Harley scoffed, swinging her gun up to shoot the bank manager through the ear, making the group of tellers and customers scream.

Harley rolled her shoulders back, avoiding looking the Joker in the eye. The bank manager's words hit a little too close to home. Not because of the monster part—that was purely subjective—but how  _awkward_  to have their  _victims_  thinking they were  _together_  when _she_  didn't even know what was going on. It was like salt in the wound.

Harley was saved from any further emotional introspection by the boys hauling duffle bags full of cash out of the vault, leaving Harley to keep an eye on the hostages while the Joker helped with the legwork. The sound of police sirens filled the air not long after, and the hostages looked around at each other, their eyes wide and hopeful that their ordeal would be over soon. They were half right, their ordeal would be over shortly, but those cops weren't there to help them. One of the two cruisers out on the street even gave a little _\- whoop! whoop! -_  to let the robbers know their getaway vehicles had arrived.

There was only time to make one trip, so Harley waited until just she and Sly remained before she backed away from the hostages, a duffle bag slung over her shoulder while Sly took three.

"Have a good day!" She called to the hostages, lowering her gun and turning to jog through the exit.

There was a gunshot behind her, and the moment Harley heard it, pain exploding across her torso, pain so intense she couldn't locate the source, but it felt like a tidal wave racing across her brain as her body tried to find the right response.

The duffle bag of money over her shoulder fell to the ground, its strap snapping where the bullet cut through it, and Harley looked down at herself, numbly observing the widening stain of scarlet spreading across the left side of her chest.

* * *

**A/N: Welp, that's that. Harley's obviously gonna die.**

**Two more chapters left!**

**Next: Harley learns more about _events forthcoming._**

**Please leave your comments and reviews! :D**


	31. Chapter 31

The Harlequin

31.

* * *

Harley watched the stain of red spread across her white camisole from under the lapel of her jacket, her brain struggling to accept what was happening. She heard one of the cruisers give another little  _Whoop! Whoop!_  Before it pulled away from the curb, and she looked up in time to see the Joker's head and shoulders shoot out the back window as the car took off. He grabbed the roof, looking like he was about to climb out the window fully when something yanked him back inside, and the cruiser sped up the street and out of sight, its sirens wailing.

A fresh wave of pain washed over Harley, this one radiating from her arm, and she gasped breathlessly as her knees buckled. She started to fall, but an arm wrapped around her waist before she hit the ground, keeping her upright.

"I gotcha, doc," Sly snapped, right in her ear. "Come on, let's get ya outta here, huh?"

Harley nodded silently, gritting her teeth to fight back the squalls of pain as she focused on hobbling down the steps with Sly's help.

"Barney, get the fuck out here and help me!" Sly barked, and the MCU clown driving their getaway cruiser jumped out of the driver's side, swearing loudly when he saw Sly holding up Harley.

"Here ya go, doc, take a seat," Sly continued hurriedly, lowering Harley onto the backseat before he rushed to offload the bags of money hooked around his neck and shoulders. He snapped at Barney and Jose about loading it up then turned back to Harley, who was slowly scooting across the backseat into the cruiser.

Sly jumped in beside her and slammed the door shut. The trunk slammed next, and the front doors both opened and slammed after that. Harley focused on the sounds around her, the pain in her arm and across her left side making her dizzy as she struggled to move past it.

"Alright, doc, where'd ya get hit?" Sly dodged into her line of sight, forcing her to look at him. But Harley couldn't seem to find her voice, so instead, she attempted to lift her arm to show him, but the small movement made her cry out as a new, acute agony exploded from the underside of her upper arm.

"Awww, fuck!" she groaned, folding forward as dizziness set in again, and the cruiser took off down the street, it's sirens screaming.

"Shit," Sly swore and moved closer. "Ya gotta get that arm up, doc, I know it hurts, but you're bleeding like hell. Here we go, you ready?"

He grabbed her arm and forced it up over her head, and Harley unsuccessfully tried to stifle a high pitched whine when Sly's hand wrapped around her bicep. She felt something small and hard wiggle in her arm, making her jaw clench so tight she thought she might break her teeth.

"It's still in there," she hissed, her stomach rolling as her hand clapped down on the back of the seat so she wouldn't topple over.

"I know, doc, I know. Let's just get to the van, and we can check it out, huh?" Sly's grabbed a handful of her jacket and held it against the bullet wound to staunch the bleeding, his hand tightening around her arm, making Harley's teeth grind together. "Barney, hurry the fuck up!" he snapped.

"He's callin' me, Sly!" Jose said from the front seat, sounding nervous.

"Well, fuckin' answer it!" Sly snapped. "Jesus fuck, what the fuck you think he'll do if we ignore him!"

"Hey, boss," Jose answered his phone anxiously. "Yeah, she's alright. Took it in the arm—uh… uh…"

"Oh,  _fuck_ ," Harley groaned, panting through her teeth as she listened to Jose stumble through a conversation with the Joker that sounded like he was mostly on the receiving end of creatively violent threats.

"Doc, ya gotta breathe normal," Sly coached. "Ya keep breathin' like that you'll hyperventilate. How you feelin', you gonna pass out? Lightheaded? Huh?"

"Ughhh," Harley replied helplessly, using every ounce of will power she had to step above the pain. To exist beyond it.

"I know, doc, I know," Sly said, the compassion in his voice making Harley lift her head to squint at him, bewildered by this twist in the plot even in her current state. But Sly wasn't looking at her; he was looking out the window as they pulled into an alley and came to a sudden stop.

All the doors opened at once, and then Sly was edging Harley out of the back of the cruiser and across the alley to the van. Dough Boy was waiting there, his eyes widening when he saw Sly with an arm around Harley's waist, propping her up as he held her bleeding arm over her head for her.

"Get the fuckin' money, ya moron!" Sly snapped at his old partner, and Dough Boy blinked twice before moving to help Jose and Barney with the cash.

Sly helped Harley into the back of the van and sat her down on a wooden utility box.

"How ya holdin' up, doc?" He asked, forcing her to meet her eye again. "You look pretty good, I gotta say."

"This hurts so much worse than being stabbed," Harley groaned as the others started throwing bags of money into the van around them.

"Don't I know it," Sly agreed. "Now we gotta get that jacket off. Lemme see what we're dealin' with in case we gotta take you to the Pill Man."

"The  _Pill Man_?" Harley's eyes widened, finding something about this name deeply unnerving.

"He's a doctor, but don't you worry, if we don't need to go, we won't," Sly assured her. "Now, let's get this jacket off ya."

As the clowns finished transferring the money, Harley and Sly got her jacket off with much hissing and swearing. Once it was off, Sly squinted at her arm while Harley looked up at the ceiling, practicing Lamaze breathing to help her coexist with the pain. There was a lot of blood; her camisole was soaked, and it was dripping down her pants, staining the left leg of her trousers. She couldn't remember if it was more blood than there had been when the Joker got 'grazed' that night when they'd been running from Franco Bertinelli's men.

He hadn't even noticed he'd been shot that night, driving them to a safe house and kicking down a door with only a few winces. You would have thought he'd had a paper cut instead of a bullet wound.

"Yep, it's still in there, doc," Sly winced, holding her ruined jacket to the wound to staunch the bleeding. "That's why it hurts so fuckin' bad. Ya got some shrapnel in your side too."

"Great," Harley said woozily as the doors to the van slammed shut, and they pulled out of the alley. She was vaguely aware of Jose and Barney muttering to each other on the other side of the van. The word 'boss' coming up frequently.

"Ya heard of the brachial artery? Huh, doc?" Sly continued, forcing Harley to meet his eye again.

"No," she admitted weakly.

"It's the big artery in your arm, kinda like the big fuckin deal of arteries there. You're bleedin' a lot, but not enough that that big fucker's been hit. I seen lotta guys get hit in the major arteries, I know when they're done for. Ya know I was in Afghanistan? Saw some messy fuckin' shit out there, doc, but I can tell you're gonna be just fine."

"You were in Afghanistan?" Harley asked blearily, knowing he was trying to distract her and wholly appreciating it.

"Sure was, did two tours," Sly nodded, running a hand over his oiled hair. "I got back to Gotham and figured hey, I'm pretty fuckin' good at killin' guys. Why don't I just keep doing it, huh?"

Harley laughed weakly, and Sy smirked, well,  _slyly_  at her, looking pleased with himself.

"Why do you keep calling me doc?" Harley asked, feeling a new stirring of fondness for Sly, who she had always disliked since the moment he and Dough Boy kidnapped her and forced her into the trunk of their car.

"Eh, it's a kinda weird situation, ain't it," Sly said thoughtfully, shifting so he was kneeling instead of squatting next to her. "Normally, I'd call the boss's girl by her name, but the Joker ain't a normal boss, and you're not exactly just his girl, are ya?"

"His girl?" Harley lifted one dubious eyebrow.

"Sure, that's what ya are, aren't ya?" Sly frowned.

Harley groaned, for an entirely different reason than the fact that she had a bullet it in her arm and shrapnel in her side.

As they crossed the Midtown bridge to the Eastside, Harley managed to get to a place where she could breathe normally and hold her arm up herself, keeping her jacket pressed tight to the wound. She listened to Sly natter on about a vacation he took to Canada, more than welcoming his attempts to distract her.

"You just want a larger share," Harley smirked as they pulled off the bridge and zoomed towards Texas Joe's Body Shop.

"That ain't true, doc," Sly protested, though he was grinning. "I like ya, that's all."

"I don't believe you," Harley chuckled. "Remember that time I was torturing Bertinelli, and I shot him in the face? You got brains in your hair."

"That was pretty fuckin' gross, doc," Sly chuckled with her. "But I gotta admit, I've had worse."

When the van pulled up outside Texas Joe's and the back doors opened, Harley waved Sly off, telling him to help the boys with the money. She sat in the back of the van, holding her arm over her head and holding her suit jacket to the hole in her arm, watching the clowns rush around her. The second van hadn't arrived yet, but Harley didn't have the capacity to worry that something had happened to them, so she simply sat breathing slowly, watching the clowns work.

Then the second van arrived, its back doors already open as it came to a screeching halt. The Joker jumped out and was in front of Harley in three long strides, dropping into a squat so they were eye level. His expression was grim, almost solemn as his hands wrapped around her jaw, holding head her in place as he searched her face intently.

Harley had never seen him look so serious.

"I'm okay," she promised him, unnerved by the intensity of his stare, and then she became aware of the clowns watching them as they worked. Just little glances among one another, and she knew this wasn't a good look. "Get up," she told the Joker quietly, and she waited for him to stand before she got unsteadily to her feet.

"Let's hurry it up, boys," she snapped, trudging into the garage with the Joker on her heels. When she passed Big Tuna, she noticed he had a newly blackened eye and blood running down the side of his face, and she guessed he'd been the one to stop the Joker jumping out of a moving car. "I'm not exactly comfortable here," she added dryly, getting a few obedient chuckles from the clowns.

Harley found Texas Joe at the very back of the garage, rummaging among stacks of plastic-wrapped Greek statues. Texas Joe sold all kinds of black market and stolen goods, including medical supplies. He looked a bit like a dirty coca-cola Santa Claus, with rosy cheeks and a big white beard that hung down over his grease-stained overalls.

When Texas Joe clocked Harley and the Joker, he turned and gave them a tight smile, then held up a small black leather bag.

"Medical kit, on the house," he drawled in his typically Texan accent, avoiding looking at the Joker, who was looming over Harley's shoulder.

"Aw, that's nice of you, Joe," Harley said, sounding very,  _very_  tired now. "Listen, you wouldn't happen to have any pain pills, would you? I've got this bullet in my arm, and it doesn't feel great."

The Joker's hand was suddenly on her lower back, propping her up. Harley hadn't even realized she was swaying until he was there to steady her.

"Already in there, doc," Joe nodded, shooting the Joker a nervous look as he handed him the bag.

"Boss!" Marty called from the front of the garage. "We're all ready up here."

"C'mon," the Joker muttered, his voice so low Harley hardly heard him as he turned her around and walked her back to the front of the garage. Only Sly, Dough Boy, and Marty remained, the others having taken their cuts and headed off. Marty was in the process of paying Sly and Dough Boy as the Joker steered Harley past them and over to the Crown Vic, which had duffle bags piled up in its trunk and back seat. The Joker's twenty-five percent and Harley's cut.

"Sly," Harley called weakly, as the Joker opened the passenger door for her. He raised a wary eyebrow as Sly approached them, but Harley shrugged. "Give him another bag," she directed. "He deserves it."

The Joker did as requested, being uncharacteristically silent as he shoved a bag of money at Sly and slammed Harley's door shut for her, then circled the Crown Vic to climb behind the wheel. The sun was getting low in the sky, but nowhere near setting, so they couldn't get away with driving around in warpaint. The Joker grabbed the baby wipes from the MCU break out off the dashboard and did a sloppy job cleaning the paint off his face before turning to Harley, his lips pursed unhappily.

"Oh, come on," Harley joked weakly. "Why so serious?"

"Hmm," he growled, and grabbed her chin, giving her face a quick clean to get rid of the warpaint. His eyes swept over her quickly before he released her, his expression giving nothing away as he started the car.

"Can I get one of those pain pills," Harley asked, her eyes closing as she leaned against the window, and he obliged her without saying anything before navigating the car back east toward Burnley Arms.

Harley stared out the window, waiting for the pain pill to kick in. Once that happened, she could analyze the Joker's reaction to her getting shot more thoroughly. Was this concern for her safety? Or was this irritation that she'd allowed herself to get injured again, a la the Victor Zsasz nightmare of the previous year? Concern took empathy, something he didn't have, but the way he'd rushed over to her and dropped to his knees told her this wasn't irritation either. It felt...  _possessive_.

She could feel the pain pill kicking in by the time they got back to the safe house. It was a strong one, but it didn't entirely block out the acute sting in her arm through it made it more tolerable. The Joker opened the car door for her, his eyes darting around suspiciously. All it took was one person to see him in his full purple suit—even without the face paint—carting a bloodied Harley, and they would be screwed.

But they made it to the apartment and through the front door without interruption, and once over the threshold, Harley sagged against the wall, her eyes rolling up to the ceiling as she sighed.

"Mmm hmm," the Joker said, spurring Harley to look at him, and she was pleased to see he was eyeing her with an amused, speculative look on his face "You probably wanna get that bullet outta your arm, dontcha?" He cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Yes, please," Harley chuckled weakly, following him into the bathroom.

The Joker turned on the tub's hot tap and helped Harley out of her bloodied pants and then her camisole so she was sitting in a pair of white briefs on the edge of the bathtub. They swapped out her jacket for a clean towel from the medical kit as the primary wound-staunching cloth, and as the room began to fill with steam, the Joker retreated to the bedroom, returning a minute later having stripped down to the purple trousers. He pushed the door shut behind him before crouching down on the floor beside Harley's feet and gesturing for her to move the towel away.

"Yikes," he observed flatly, peering at the underside of her arm and her side. "That's a lotta shrapnel from one good samaritan's bullet."

"Is that what happened?" Harley asked faintly, watching the steam rise out of the bathtub. "Some asshole tried to kill me to make the world a better place?"

The Joker gave a dry, rattling laugh as he poked through the medical kit they'd been gifted and held up a large pair of tweezers, squinting at them before he set about cleaning the blood off her arm and side, then sanitizing everything with rubbing alcohol under Harley's instructions when she sensed he would just dive in and bypass that critical step.

"So  _bossy_  even when you've got a bullet in you," the Joker grumbled, shooting her a smirk.

He started with the flecks of metal in her side, picking out minute fragments of the bullet and tossing them into the sink. Harly kept her eyes closed, trying to think about anything other than the tweezers nudging raw, open flesh on the side of her body. There was an area of about four square inches to cover, and it felt like it took twenty minutes to get all of it out before the Joker pulled back, humming thoughtfully.

"Alright," he said, more to himself than Harley as he nudged her hand and the cloth away so he could get to the bullet in her arm. She heard him click the tweezers together a few times to get ready, and she sank her teeth into her bottom lip, preparing herself.

Yeah, that part really fucking hurt.

Harley kept her eyes on the wall, memorizing the lines in the tiles and breathing through her nose as she waited for it to end, and when the Joker finally got it out she sighed in relief, the sound of the bullet rattling around in the sink the most beautiful thing she'd heard in her life.

"Don't get too excited," the Joker shot her a knowing look. "Now we gotta sew you up."

"Are you enjoying this?" Harley huffed, holding the towel to her arm to stop it from bleeding fresh while he threaded a needle. Instead of answering her, the Joker just chuckled to himself and swatted her hand away, then set about sewing the hole in her arm shut.

This part hurt less than getting the bullet out, her arm numb from excessive sensation, or maybe the pain pill was kicking up a notch. Harley didn't know, but her thoughts drifted to Pam as she sat there, mostly naked, while the Joker sutured her bullet wound.

What would Pam think about all of this?

The real Pam, not the terrible anxious version she'd become at the end. And this thought carried Harley through getting bandages applied and wrapped around her arm and side until finally the Joker sat back on his heels and declared her ready to go.

"Think you'll be up and walkin' around by Thursday?" he asked, lifting one eyebrow. He was still kneeling beside the bathtub, his hair damp from the steam that had filled the room, and pushed off his face.

"Psh," Harley scoffed, slowly lowering her arm to her side. "After I get some sleep, I'll be walking around tomorrow."

The Joker gave another rattly little laugh, running his tongue over his bottom lip as his eyes crinkled up at the corners. It was one of those private smiles Harley was sure few other people got to see.

"What's on Thursday?" Harley asked, shooting him a curious look. He had his head cocked to the side, and his eyes narrowed as he considered her.

"Ohhh... just the Harvey Dent Day  _Gala_ ," he said at length, lifting one eyebrow at her meaningfully.

Harley did some slow mental math from what she'd learned over the last few days, and she felt a smile start to grow on her lips.

"You're kidnapping the Mayor from the Dent Day Gala?" she asked.

" _Oh_ , yeah," he growled, looking pleased with himself. "But, uh, you look better in a dress than me."

Harley suddenly realized what he was asking her without asking at all. He wanted her help on another job. If it weren't for the pain pill slowing her down, she might have grinned stupidly at him, but at present, all she was capable of was a lopsided smile and a quiet laugh. Another three days of working with him and having him by her side. Another three days of what was starting to feel like her ideal situation or lifestyle or whatever you wanted to call it.

"Yeah, okay," Harley agreed softly. Her eyes dipped down to the floor as she put a few more pieces together. "Are you going to use the Mayor to get Gordon to tell the truth about Dent?"

The Joker chuckled again and reached up to run his palm over her hair, smoothing it back from her face.

" _Absolutely_ ," he snarled, meeting her eye, and Harley laughed softly as she leaned into his hand.

"Is that going to be enough?" She asked, not entirely convinced. "He kept his mouth shut even when we kidnapped his daughter."

"Ah, I gotta few other irons in the fire," the Joker shrugged, taking her good arm and hooking it around his neck before he ducked down to pick her up bridal style and carry her out of the bathroom.

Through the small windows in the living room, Harley could see the sun was just about setting. A wave of exhaustion aided by the pain pill suddenly swept over her, making her tongue feel heavy as she tried to ask about those irons in the fire, almost more curious to know if he'd tell her than what they were.

"Uh...how about  _you_  sober up, and then we talk," he rumbled, setting her on the mattress in the bedroom then falling down beside her.

"Fair enough," Harley agreed, putting her head on his shoulder as her eyes closed, and she was already asleep before he had a chance to respond.

* * *

Harley slept hard until late the next morning. She woke up to the sound of the door banging open and slamming shut again and realized she was alone. But after their brief conversation about the Mayor job the night before, she was blissfully bereft of melancholy or anxiety over the Joker leaving her there. She had at least three more days. She dozed off again, and when she woke up, he was back, toting a greasy brown paper bag, a tray of coffees, and a newspaper, which he tossed in her face carelessly.

Harley grumbled sleepily, keeping her left arm tight to her side as she pulled herself up to sit against the wall, dragging the sheets with her to cover her breasts.

" _Lots_  of news today," the Joker hummed, falling onto his knees on the mattress and then rotating around to fall on his back, miraculously not spilling the coffee in the tray.

Feeling a little on the drugged side, Harley picked up the newspaper and squinted at the headline.

_CORRUPTION RUNS RAMPANT AT GOTHAM CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT: AN EXCLUSIVE BY VICKI VALE._

"Aww," Harley grinned, scanning the piece for the names of the officers she'd directed Vicki to speak to. She reached for her phone on the floor and sent a heart emoji to Vicki via text.

"That's not  _ah-_ all," the Joker sing-songed, kicking off his shoes as he looked up at Harley. "Guess what passed last night while we were performing minor surgery?"

Harley's eyes widened. "The Dent Act got signed? Seriously?"

"Mmhmm," he nodded, looking incredibly smug. "Mr Mayor gave it his _stamp_  of approval just last night."

"Wow," Harley looked down at Vicki's front-page story detailing rampant corruption among the GCPD, who had just been given new powers under the Dent Act. "Vicki has  _really_  good timing," she mused, just as her phone dinged with Vicki's reply. An emoji of a face with its eyes rolling up to the ceiling. Harley smiled.

The Joker dropped the greasy bag on the bed between them, fishing out some kind of pastry that smelled like pizza and doing his usual routine of inhaling the food without tasting it. Harley accepted a coffee as she read the newspaper while the Joker thumbed around on a phone until he pulled up a GCN clip of Vicki discussing the Dent Act and what it meant for the GCPD under Gordon from earlier that morning.

Reading the newspaper and watching the news while drinking coffee in bed.

It was almost  _too_  normal.

Well, Harley did have a gunshot wound, and they were surrounded by duffle bags full of money from the bank they'd just robbed, so possibly not that normal after all.

"So uh, when do I get to meet your  _friend_ , huh?" the Joker asked gruffly, recrossing his long legs as he tipped his head back to peer up at Harley.

"Never," she snorted, sipping her coffee.

"What, are you like _, embarrassed_  by me?" He shot her a rakish half-smirk.

"Embarrassed? No," she grinned. "Aware that some people find you…  _unsettling_? Yes."

He scoffed, looking genuinely offended by this judgment, making Harley throw her head back and laugh. She set her coffee on the floor then awkwardly, with only one hand to work with, climbed into his lap so she was straddling his hips, naked aside from a small pair of briefs that were sporting a few rust-colored blood stains from the day before.

"Unsettling," he hummed, squinting at her as his hands snaked up her legs, and they simply looked at one another for a long moment, small smiles dancing on their mouths.

"Tell me more about the other irons you have in the fire," Harley requested, not failing to notice that his eyes had drifted from her face to her breasts then down to her stomach. It made her squirm a little bit, which  _he_  didn't fail to notice, his eyes darting back up to hers as his mouth curled smugly. "Business first?" She suggested with a sly smile, and he inhaled sharply through his nose before sitting up and shrugging out of the brown leather jacket he'd been wearing, then tugging his black tee shirt off over his head and shoving it at her.

Harley laughed and pulled the tee-shirt on, edging her injured arm through the sleeve carefully, and when she'd finished, she lifted her chin and looked down at him expectantly, unable to stop smiling.

" _Anna_  Ramirez," he growled, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "Former MCU detective and Gordon's rookie. Currently an employee of Central City private security."

Harley frowned, not following. "And how does she connect to all of this?"

"Before Maroni got, uh,  _exploded,"_  the Joker explained. "I had a little talk with him. Ya know, to clear up some of this Dent business." He pursed his lips, eyeing Harley speculatively, weighing something up before he plowed ahead. " _Ramirez_  was the last person to see Rachel Dawes alive."

"Rachel Dawes?" Harley's eyebrows nearly jumped into her hairline. "Dent's girlfriend?"

"His _fiancee,"_  the Joker corrected, feigning a sympathetic wince that made Harley laugh again. "Ramirez was doin' some racketeering on the side for Maroni, and uh, she's the one who drove the late Ms Dawes to her final resting place."

"So Dent went after her," Harley filled in, nodding slowly. "But he didn't kill her?"

"Oh, Harvey, Harvey _, Harvey_ ," the Joker sighed, his eyes rolling back in his head as he dug his fingers into Harley's thighs. " _So_  much potential.  _Such_  a waste."

"What happened?" Harley demanded impatiently, finding the story extraordinarily compelling.

"He had this _coin_ ," the Joker continued slowly. "Heads you live... tails you _die_. Ramirez got to live."

Harley's mouth fell open dramatically, her eyes widening. Now  _that_  was theatrical. Then she realized what he was getting at.

"So Ramirez is the only person left alive who saw Dent go crazy," she said thoughtfully. "Aside from Gordon and the Batman."

"That we know of," the Joker corrected, pointing a sharp finger at her. "But basically,  _yeah._ "

"I take it Gordon ran her out of town?" Harley lifted a wary eyebrow. "Sent her packing to Central City so she wouldn't ruin his big lie."

"Details," he shrugged dismissively.

"It's  _all_  in the details," Harley replied haughtily, making the Joker smirk. "Does this mean we're taking a trip to Central City?"

"Nah, just Otisburg," he drummed his fingers on Harley's leg. "I got her staying at Bruno's old place."

Harley felt a flash of regret over Bruno then, who she hadn't thought of in quite some time. Poor guy, she thought. He'd been able to handle more than Marty could.

"So, what are you going to do with her?" She asked, the regret over killing Bruno so fleeting it was already gone.

The Joker poked her in the stomach, a slow smile forming on his mouth. "That's where  _you_  come in."

Harley felt something powerful swoop through her when he said that. Something she couldn't put a name to but encapsulated the giddiness and the calm she'd been feeling at intervals over the days since she'd blown up the Lucky Hand bosses. He wanted her to plan a job with him. He wanted her input in the details. She wouldn't go so far as to say he  _needed_  her, but he seemed to think he would be better off with her than without her.

She yanked his tee-shirt off over her head, awkwardly since she was still keeping her bad arm tight to her side. But once it was out of the way, the Joker sat up, one of his hands snaking around her back to run up her spine while the other smoothed up her good side to cover her breast as his mouth connected with her jaw.

"Be gentle with me," Harley sang in a high, girlish voice, making the Joker sputter with laughter. He buried his face in her shoulder, giggling hard. Then his head tipped back, and he looked up at her through hooded eyes, a dreamy smile on his face.

" _God_ , you're funny," he growled.

* * *

After some careful sex where the Joker was _reasonably_  gentle to make sure Harley didn't rip out her homemade stitches, they got cleaned up and ready. Harley only had her clothes from the robbery on hand, the camisole destroyed while the red suit trousers were in slightly better shape after she rubbed some of the blood out of them in the sink. She wore the Joker's black tee shirt, tying it in a knot at her waist to make it fit better while he tugged the leather jacket back on over the lilac shirt paired with black jeans. A couple of pairs of dark sunglasses to cover their eyes later, and they were ready to go, piling into the Crown Vic and heading uptown to Otisberg.

Harley was looking forward to getting more details out of Ramirez, in no small part, to assuage her curiosity about what happened to Dent. She vividly remembered the day the Joker shared that the Batman hadn't killed Dent and that Dent had gone crazy after he planted a few seeds in a grieving man's mind. It had scared her, made her think the Joker would try to do the same to her which, in hindsight, was kind of hilarious. Harley had been a killer long before she met the Joker.

Still, there was one part of the puzzle that niggled her. No one, the Joker included, really knew how Dent died. Only Gordon and Batman knew, which was why it was essential Gordon be the one to spill to the public.

"Are you sure?" she asked the Joker as they drove down the street of dilapidated duplexes Bruno's house was on. "Are you sure the Batman didn't kill Dent after what he did?"

The Joker shot her a dark look out of the corner of his eye. "If he wouldn't let me die," he reasoned. "There's no way he woulda killed Dent."

Harley nodded, agreeing that this was sound logic. Plus, the Joker had an affinity for understanding how the Batman's mind worked, and Harley trusted him.

That was the moment she realized she trusted him, and instead of feeling stupid for it, she felt another one of those powerful swoops of calm and giddiness, and had to turn her face away so he would see her beaming.

They pulled into Bruno's driveway beside another junky old car. At the front door, the Joker knocked impatiently, and a short, muscley man appeared in the door, looking grumpy.

"Harley, Dancin' Sam," the Joker said flatly, gesturing between them. "Dancin' Sam, Harley."

The small house was in disarray, which was no surprise considering it had been long-abandoned since Bruno died. There were pizza boxes everywhere, suggesting Dancin' Sam had been there at least a few weeks, and Harley frowned as she realized she hadn't given any thought to how Ramirez had been kidnapped or where she was being kept in her eagerness to speak to her.

Dancin' Sam led them down the hallway to the bedrooms, stopping outside Bruno's daughter's room, where he handed the Joker a key to a padlock that had recently been installed on the door. Then he turned and loped off down the hall as the Joker fiddled with the lock, and the door swung open.

Harley's hand flew up to cover her mouth and nose as the smell of human waste hit her, making her stomach roll. She pushed past the Joker to look in the bedroom, her eyes widening at what she saw there. The room was still as pink and My Little Pony-centric as she remembered it, but now it looked like some sinister dungeon. The windows were boarded up, a fraction of light peeking through the cracks the only way to see the mess of the place. There were pizza boxes and TV dinner trays surrounding the twin bed in the corner, along with numerous empty two-liter bottles of soda. On the bed was a woman lying on her side, her wrist chained to the radiator, giving her a tiny range of motion.

From the smell of the place, she had been there a while.

Harley pulled back to glare at the Joker, deeply unimpressed, and he raised one amused eyebrow.

"Hey, don't look at  _me_. Dancin' Sam is the one who's been keepin' an eye on her," he shrugged carelessly.

"How long has she been here?" Harley hissed, keeping her voice low.

"I dunno, a few weeks," the Joker scrunched up his face thoughtfully, then shrugged again, unphased by the fact that a woman had been living in a room surrounded by her own waste for weeks. Harley did some quick mental math. Three weeks earlier, they hadn't been on the best terms. If she remembered correctly, there had been some contentious fucking in the back of a car where they both tried to prove they weren't interested in the other.

"So, what the hell were you thinking of doing with her?" Harley narrowed her eyes, flinging her arm at Ramirez, and the Joker pursed his lips.

"Fight to the death with the Mayor," he hummed, squinting like he was thinking hard. "Makin' Gordon choose one of em' to live..."

"Uh huh," Harley deadpanned, turning back to frown at the mess of the room. It was disgusting, but it might work in her favor if she went forward with the plan she had in mind. She turned back to the Joker, her expression businesslike as she looked up at him. "Go to the Mega Mart and get some clothes for her. Comfy things like leggings and hoodies," she instructed, and the Joker shot her a bewildered look.

"Uh... you want me to go  _shopping_  for her?" He lifted a bemused eyebrow.

"Yes," Harley smirked secretively. "I have an idea."

That seemed to be enough for the Joker, who took off without complaint as Harley edged into the bedroom, bracing herself for what was likely going to be an emotional encounter.

She squatted down beside the bed, trying to avoid the mess on the floor, and laid her hand on Ramirez's shoulder, gently shaking her awake. The other woman rolled her head to the side slowly, blinking hard like she was confused when she saw Harley there with a small, compassionate smile on her face.

"Hi, Anna," Harley said softly. "I'm sorry this happened to you."

"Who are you," Ramirez croaked weakly. "What do you want?"

"My name's Harley. I want to help you," Harley replied with another gentle smile. She unlocked the handcuffs from the radiator, and Ramirez drew her hand into her chest, rubbing her wrist where the cuffs had been for oh... weeks, it sounded like. "Come on," Harley said, feeling a pulse of genuine compassion for this woman. "Let's get you out of here."

Moving slow, Harley helped Ramirez off the bed, across the room and out into the hall. She led her into the bathroom and had her sit on the closed toilet while she ran a hot bath. Ramirez sat silently, her eyes hollow and lifeless as she stared at the floor, and it occurred to Harley that Dancin' Sam might not have been as gentlemanly with her as she would have liked, a thought that made her more than a little angry.

"Anna," she said, kneeling in front of her and forcing her to meet her eye. "Did he touch you?" she asked, her expression grim, and when Ramirez slowly shook her head 'no', Harley breathed a sigh of relief. But still, something about this situation was stirring something protective in Harley, and she decided the former detective Ramirez would make it out of this alive.

She helped her out of her clothes and into the bathtub, then gave her some privacy to clean herself up by heading back down the hall to find Dancin' Sam. He was on the couch on his phone, the TV playing an old Superman movie on silent.

"Hey," Harley snapped, unimpressed with this particular minion's work. "Why the fuck were you keeping her like that?"

"Boss didn't say not to," Dancin' Sam shrugged, not looking at Harley.

"Sam," she said coldly, and something in her tone made him look up at her, his eyes widening when he saw the steely look on her face. "Get the fuck out of here before I start cutting off pieces of you and _feeding_  them to you," she scowled.

Dancin' Sam quickly scrambled to his feet. "Sorry, doc," he said, looking nervous as he edged over to the front door, not wanting to turn his back on Harley. "I'll uh, I'll just be goin'..."

As Dancin' Sam escaped out the front door he passed the Joker, who watched him go, frowning over the tops of his sunglasses.

"Aw, you scared him off," he cooed, tossing a large brown bag baring the Mega Mart logo down on the couch.

"I prefer my muscle less stupid," Harley informed him, making him chuckle as he moved to flop down on the couch before Harley stopped him. "Actually... I need you to make yourself scarce."

He blinked owlishly at her. "Make myself  _scarce_?" He parroted back to her, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing, no doubt because his massive ego was stopping him from understanding that his presence wasn't exactly a soothing one.

Harley grinned, feeling a swell of affection for that big swollen psychopathic ego. It was just so _him_.

She sidled up to him, her hand curling around the collar of his shirt as she smiled up at him.

"I'll make it up to you," she promised coyly, letting her hand drift down his chest and his stomach until it landed on his belt, her fingers dipping into the top of his jeans.

His eyebrows raised appraisingly. "Fair enough," he agreed mildly. "I got errands to run."

Harley almost,  _almost_  asked what kind of errands, but she held her tongue, not wanting there to be one of those moments where he weighed up how much he should tell her and ultimately decided not to share. She'd had enough moments like that to last a lifetime, and for now, she was going to allow him to share when he wanted to. It was easier this way, and she rationalized it was a concession to knowing how his brain worked instead of a concession to him. If there was a reason she needed to know, he would tell her.

Harley realized this was yet another instance of trusting him, something she used to fear unilaterally. It was uncharted territory, and she didn't know if it was reciprocated, but it was unfathomably satisfying to just  _give in_ and trust him, even if it was dangerous.

He was still the Joker, after all.

* * *

Harley got Ramirez dressed in leggings and an oversized top, along with a hoodie and some flip flops. She sat her down at the kitchen table and had her drink a large glass of water. There was nothing but more terrible, unhealthy food in the fridge and cupboards, so Harley settled on some green tea she found in a dusty box on top of the fridge and made Ramirez a cup. Then she got her to tell her everything that happened to her at the hands of Dancin' Sam, making sympathetic sounds and touching her lightly — patting her back, covering her hand with hers. Small, compassionate, non-invasive touches to let Ramirez know she cared.

It wasn't that she  _didn't_  care. She was still incredibly annoyed about how Ramirez had been treated. But Harley also had a job to do, and that took precedence.

Next, she got Ramirez's story about Harvey Dent out of her. About how Ramirez's mother had colossal hospital bills, so she felt her only option was to do some 'freelancing' for Maroni and his cronies. How she hadn't known that she would be driving Rachel Dawes to her death when she was given the instruction that night. How Dent had cornered her, deranged, out of his mind, and maimed beyond recognition as he pointed a gun at her. That wasn't the Harvey Dent she knew, she said, that was someone else entirely.

Something about this hit home, because many people had said that about Harley.

"Do you think, maybe that was who Dent was the whole time?" Harley asked carefully. "That he had just been... keeping it inside before?"

"No," Ramirez shook her head. "He cared about truth and justice. I should know, he investigated me while he was still at Internal Affairs. Dent was a good guy, but when Rachel died, he snapped."

Harley nodded slowly and asked what happened after that day when Dent threatened her. Gordon had hinted it would be better for everyone if Ramirez left the force, and they were all so demoralized she did as he suggested. She never thought to tell anyone what Dent had done to her, to tell the world that the Batman may have had a good reason for killing him.

This part of the narrative was vital; it gave Gordon an opening that would push him to come forward and clear the Batman's name.

"Don't you think people should know the Batman had a good reason?" Harley squinted at Ramirez, nudging her toward what she needed her to say. "That maybe he didn't have a choice? He got so close to cleaning up the city... maybe he could do it again if people believed in him."

Ramirez frowned. "I know who you are," she said slowly. "Why do you want people to believe in the Batman again?"

"Well," Harley sighed, knowing she had a point. Six months earlier, when she was working for Penguin, this was the kind of thing she would have covered up because it served her and the people she worked for. But now... it seemed important to show people the truth. She realized at that moment how fully she'd come around to the Joker's way of thinking, and a blip of that old fear of being manipulated suddenly jumped to the surface. The idea that she was losing herself to him was a terrifying one that went against who she believed herself to be—a stubbornly independent person.

But that was just one framing of how Harley was evolving. Another would be that accepting these truths about the world and how she existed and acted within it, allowed her to shed all those restrictive, repressive barriers she'd always placed on herself. The barriers that made her so unhappy time and time again. And being around the Joker made it much easier to just...  _give in_  like he did.

But that was nobody's business but Harley's, and she didn't need to explain herself to Ramirez or anyone else.

"The truth matters," Harley said with a shrug. "People need to see what's going on. Otherwise, they'll always be living a lie."

"And you think it's your job to show them the truth?" Ramirez frowned, and Harley smiled breezily, remembering when she'd asked the Joker the very same thing at Arkham in one of their early sessions. And now she understood completely.

"If we don't," she said, still smiling. "Then who will?"

* * *

By the time Harley had finished rinsing Ramirez for information, it was getting to be late afternoon. The Joker left the Crown Vic in the driveway, finding alternative means of transport to wherever he had gone. With him out of the way, Harley had effectively positioned herself as the only person Ramirez could trust, so it took very little convincing to get her out of the house and into the car, even without telling her where they were going. Before she put her seatbelt on, Harley fired off a text to the Joker to let him know where to meet her, and about thirty seconds later, she received a message back - ' _Huh_ ' - that made her smile.

Ramirez finally worked up to courage to ask where they were going as they pulled onto the freeway. She was still moving slow, weak, and not quite herself. Harley had a hard time imagining any rookie of Gordon's with a side job in racketeering would be so meek and compliant, but being kept in a dark room full of your own shit for three weeks was no doubt traumatizing.

"I figured I'd get you a bus ticket back to Central City," Harley said offhandedly, glancing at Ramirez to see how she'd react to this suggestion. She was frowning out the windshield and eventually turned to look at Harley, a glint of what Harley imagined was the real, snappy Detective Ramirez in her warm eyes.

"And what do you want in return?" She asked cautiously, not wanting to step on the toes of the only person who was helping her.

"Would you be open to speaking to someone about..." Harley trailed off, letting her head tip to the side thoughtfully as she stared out at the highway. "All of this?"

"What, like a shrink?" Ramirez frowned, and Harley shot her a grin, wondering if she realized she'd just made a decent joke. But Ramirez was as serious as death.

"No," Harley corrected with an affectionate smile, glancing between the road and Ramirez. "Like a journalist. Someone who cares about the truth."

"Oh," Ramirez said softly, as if after all the discussion about making sure Gotham knew the truth, she hadn't thought she'd be in a position to get that truth out there.

"You don't owe Gordon anything," Harley continued, her face growing more serious as she prepared to deliver the final blow. "But maybe you  _do_  owe something to the people of Gotham."

Ramirez nodded slowly as she stared out the window, and Harley knew that she had her.

It was about a half an hour drive to the bus terminal near Gotham Airport. Ramirez fell asleep shortly after their conversation, and once Harley was sure she was unconscious, she tapped out a text to Vicki Vale, looking between her phone and the road.

_I have someone you need to meet. Today._

Ten minutes later, Vicki replied.

_You may have noticed it's a little busy today!_

Harly chuckled and tapped out a reply.

_You don't want to miss this. Airport Hyatt. Now._

There was another long wait before Vicki agreed, and Harley tucked her phone away in the center console, smiling as she imagined how these moves would play out. She still wasn't convinced that simply kidnapping the Mayor and making a hostage video for Lonnie to play on GCN would be enough to get Gordon to cave. But she suspected wherever the Joker was at that moment he was putting more irons in the fire and had more cards up his sleeve than he'd shared with her yet.

And she was okay with that.

Because as she'd recently come to accept, she trusted him.

It was freeing to trust him, but there was still that niggling little fact that it was Tuesday night, and by Thursday night, this job would be over, and Harley didn't know where she fit in after that.

They pulled up to the Airport Hyatt, which was right around the corner from the bus terminal with the bonus of being one of the more upscale airport hotels. Something to make Ramirez feel more human after her inhumane treatment. Harley checked them into two rooms, then took Ramirez to the restaurant attached to the hotel and ordered them both huge dinners. She made more friendly small talk about getting her PhD and staying in Airport Hyatts all over the country when she'd give talks on panels about her dissertation. Ramirez listened intently, no doubt filing away information like the detail-orientated detective she'd once been.

Harley had just dropped Ramirez off in her room when she got a text from Vicki saying she was in the lobby, impatient to find out what was going on. They met in front of the elevators, Vicki looking around uncertainly, her faith in Harley as a source hampered by her knowledge of who Harley was and what she was capable of.

"Wow, you got here fast," Harley greeted her cheerfully, chuckling when Vicki spun around to glare at her.

"You can't just demand I come to see you whenever you want," Vicki hissed, waving Harley over to a corner out of earshot of the receptionist's desk.

"Calm down," Harley rolled her eyes. "This is worth it, I promise."

"That's the only reason I'm here," Vicki huffed, looking around with her lips pursed. "So, what is this all about?"

"Harvey Dent," Harley said, and Vicki's eyes widened considerably.

"Harvey  _Dent?"_  she repeated incredulously, and Harley nodded soundly.

"Gordon wasn't fully honest about what happened to him," Harley explained. "His old Rookie Anna Ramirez is upstairs, and she has quite the story to tell."

Vicki ran her hand over her pale blonde hair, looking like she had too many questions to ask at once. But there was also a glint in her eye; the glint Harley knew meant her sixth sense for a good story was tingling.

"Alright," Vicki agreed slowly, then she narrowed her eyes. "What's your angle on this?"

"My angle?" Harley lifted her eyebrows appraisingly. "I just want the truth to come out."

"Come on, Harley," Vicki said flatly, folding her arms. "You robbed a bank with the Joker yesterday. Are you telling me you two aren't back together?"

Harley's face twisted unhappily as her eyes rolled to the side. She could feel Vicki staring at her, waiting for an answer because she believed Harley's motivation was tied up in the Joker's motivation, and that was true even if they weren't 'back together.'

"It's complicated," she settled on, at last, unable to meet Vicki's eye.

"It's complicated?" Vicki repeated dubiously, her interest apparent. "What does that mean? Is that like your Facebook status right now?"

"Aren't _all_  relationships complicated," the Joker's voice suddenly filled the space around them, and Harley looked up to see that he had appeared behind Vicki.

Vicki spun around and jumped about three feet in the air, her mouth hanging open.

"Holy...  _shit_!" She breathed, staggering back to stand behind Harley like she would protect her.

The Joker grinned rakishly at Vicki as she stared openly back at him. It may have been that he was currently dressed down in black jeans, his hair tied back sloppily, his face unpainted. Contrasting that figure with the voice Vicki would have heard on the news was probably making her do some mental gymnastics as she accepted who was standing across from her.

Harley rolled her eyes and pulled the key card to their room out of her pocket, handing it to the Joker, who accepted it without looking away from Vicki.

"345," she told him, thumbing the button for the elevator. "I'll meet you up there in a minute."

"Yes, ma'am," the Joker drawled, moving toward the elevator as its doors opened. He shot Vicki one last smirk. "Nice meetin' ya...  _Vicki..._ "

When he was gone, Vicki turned her wide eyes up to Harley. "That was him?" She asked faintly. "He looked so normal."

"Told you," Harley shrugged and gestured for her to follow her. "Come on, let's take the stairs so you don't have a heart attack."

Harley dropped Vicki off at Ramirez's room, then strolled down the hall to her room. She knocked twice, and the Joker opened the door, lounging casually against the door frame.

"I don't think  _Vicki_  liked me," he said, lifting a lazy eyebrow as Harley pushed past him to get into the room. It was a typical airport hotel room, white walls, beige carpet, minimal fittings, clean and inoffensive with a new but still cheap flat-screen television on the wall.

"Shocking," Harley smirked at him over her shoulder as she kicked off her flip flops at the foot of the bed and fell back on it.

"Everything uh... go according to plan?" the Joker asked mildly, lowering himself onto the bed and leaning back against the headboard, a beige padded thing that was supposed to make the room feel welcome and cozy.

"Vicki's going to make things difficult for Gordon," Harley nodded, looking up at the stark white ceiling as she listened to the air conditioner hum.

"Classy place you've chosen here," the Joker observed drily, and Harley tipped her head back to look up at him from where she was lying halfway down the bed.

"I used to stay at these places all the time when I got flown around to give talks," she told him, rolling over and pushing herself up with her good arm so she was sitting back on her heels. She smirked at him and scooted off the bed, grabbing the Joker's knee and pulling him around so he was sitting on the edge of the bed with both feet on the floor. Then she lowered herself to her knees between his legs.

"Is this the uh, making it up to me?" He asked, keeping his voice low as Harley undid his belt and unzipped his jeans.

"I don't know," she grinned up at him. "There's just something about airport hotels that makes me..." she trailed off, taking him in hand, watching him lick his bottom lip as she stroked him.

"Eager to please?" he offered coyly, and Harley shot him a knowing look before she folded forward, wrapping her lips around him.

He braced his hands on the bed behind him while Harley took her time, gradually pulling him deeper into her mouth. She'd done this for him enough times to know what he liked and when he liked it, and when he made a quiet, encouraging sound, she looked up at him, meeting his eye as she bobbed up and down his length. He was gazing down at her through hooded eyes, watching her carefully, the watching more potently arousing than the act itself just like it was for all men.

Harley smiled to herself as one of his hands sank into her hair, pulling it to the side so he could see her better. As she moved faster, she felt his legs tense, and when he came, his hand tightened to a fist in her hair as he exhaled roughly, sending arousal spinning through Harley's belly, and making her cheeks warm.

They shared a smirk as she wiped her mouth, then got to her feet and went into the bathroom for a glass of water. She laughed when he crooked two fingers at her, indicating that he wanted her to come closer, and when she reached him, he flicked apart the button and zip of her pants, then glanced up at her as his hands closed around her waist. Harley's pulse lept when he stood up and turned her around, pushing her down on the bed, though the tension in his hands told her he would have liked to shove her if it weren't for her banged up arm.

She edged up the bed while he helped her out of her pants and underwear, then he nudged her knees apart and settled between them.

Harley braced her good arm behind her head and sighed as he rubbed his thumb over her, humming happily. And when he lowered his mouth to lick a lazy stripe over her, she couldn't help thinking that this was a fantastic way to spend the evening while they played the waiting game.

He took his time getting her close, but when Harley's stomach tightened and her toes started to curl, a few excited pants jumping past her lips, he backed off suddenly, making her huff in frustration. Then he got her close again, so close her back was arching off the bed, and she was gasping... but then he backed off again. He laid his forearm down across her stomach, pressing her into the bed to stop her from squirming as he did this twice more until she was panting and pulling his hair, on the verge of begging. And when he finally let her come, Harley nearly sobbed in relief, her body vibrating as pleasure pulsed through her limbs.

They laid around lazily for a while after that, waiting out Vicki and Ramirez. Harley pulled her underwear back on and checked the time on her phone, then fell back down on the bed beside the Joker with her hair splayed around her, feeling content. When her phone started to ring, she lifted her head to look at the cracked screen, frowning when she saw it was a video call from a number with a strange country code.

"You gonna answer that?" The Joker drawled he was lying beside her, his hands folded over his chest, his eyes closed.

Harley sat up, turning her back on him as she answered the call, and Sofia's face appeared behind the cracked screen. She was wearing a pair of oversized circular sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat, and behind her, the sun was shining brilliantly.

" _Darling,_ " she purred, making Harley throw her head back and laugh.

"Where are you?" Harley grinned, ignoring the Joker as he grumbled something under his breath and shuffled up the bed so he was sitting against the headboard.

"Milan," Sofia cooed. "We arrived yesterday. I can't tell you how wonderful it is to be back."

"Aw, that's good," Harley smiled, genuinely happy for her.

"I've read that Mr Kolysik has mysteriously disappeared," Sofia smirked.

"Before he got a chance to talk," Harley replied slyly, and Sofia made a throaty, delighted sound.

"I don't know how to thank you, Harley," she said, lifting her sunglasses and making one of her rare sincere faces.

"He was a liability," Harley shrugged. "And I can't stand Gordon's hypocrisy."

"Sounds like things for you and Pretty Boy are working out nicely," Sofia continued, letting her sunglasses slip down her nose as she smirked knowingly.

"Oh, uh," Harley faltered, hyper-aware that the Joker was listening behind her. She tried not to give anything away, to either him or Sofia, and settled for an awkward: "We'll see what happens. Nothing is ever permanent."

"Ah, he's there now, is he?" Sofia smirked knowingly. "You little minx."

Harley laughed again, and they promised each other they'd stay in touch now that she had Sofia's Italian number, and that she wouldn't get herself into too much trouble or go back to wearing those dreadful leather loafers now that Sofia wasn't around to dress her.

When she got off the phone, Harley laid back down and stared at the ceiling, trying to focus on what needed to be done the next day instead of the Joker laying beside her, being uncharacteristically quiet when he should have been teasing her or bitching about Sofia. She worked up the courage to roll onto her side, deciding she wouldn't be a coward.

"How did the errands go?" She asked, propping herself up on her good arm.

His eyes rolled toward her first, followed by his head, then he hummed lightly, his face hard to read.

"There's a good spot out in Tri Corner," he drawled. "Nice little warehouse that hasn't been used in a long,  _long_  time.  _Perfect_  for Mr Mayor once we get him."

Harley stared up at him, processing the " _we"_  and wondering if he meant her or the group. There was only one way to find out.

"Who else knows about it?"

"One of the new guys flagged it a couple days back," the Joker drawled, rubbing a hand over his jaw to feel the stubble growing through after a few days without shaving. "I was callin' him Dopey, but this place checked out pretty good."

"What do you call him now?" Harley smirked.

"Well, he's  _dead_  now," the Joker chuckled darkly. "So I'm not callin' him anything."

Harley wrinkled her nose. "What happened?"

"Ah, well, Dopey was the only one who knew about this place," he shrugged carelessly. "After we get Mr Mayor things are gonna get more...  _delicate_. Better if Dopey takes  _this_  little secret it to the grave."

Harley blinked stupidly at him, realizing he was saying he'd killed the only person who knew about this hideout to take the Mayor to, and now he was telling her about it. And she wanted to ask why he kept saying " _we,_ " but before she could, there was a knock on the door.

Harley dragged her eyes away from the Joker and rolled off the bed, telling herself this would be Vicki and she needed to concentrate on getting Vicki to say the right things instead of worrying about her  _relationship status._

It was Vicki, and she had a giant grin on her face.

"Holy fuck," she laughed as Harley stepped out into the hall, leaving the door ajar.

"That good, huh?" Harley smirked.

"Don't get me wrong," Vicki dialed down her grin a fraction, but it was easy to see she was still in the throes of a good story. "She told me some guy who worked for the Joker kidnapped her and kept her locked in a room for three weeks."

Harley opened her mouth to protest, but Vicki waved her off.

"She also told me once you found out you got her out of there and looked after her." Vicki sighed and pursed her lips thoughtfully. "You're a very confusing person, Harley."

"So I've been told," Harley shrugged. "But all I want is for the truth to come out."

"Come on, off the record, what's he planning?" Vicki needled her. "Have you got any idea? Is it as big as the last one? Come on, Harley, give me  _something."_

Harley shot her a knowing look, and Vicki threw her hands up in exasperation.

"Fine, fine," she agreed, almost cheerfully even though they were talking about another potential Reign of Terror. "Well, look, I've already spoken to my editors at the Globe, and there's no way we can publish something like this short notice without verifying the source, but I told them I would be able to verify it soon...  _right?"_  She shot Harley a meaningful look, her pale eyebrows raised.

"By the weekend," Harley nodded, thinking Vicki's moral compass was wonderfully fucked up if she was eagerly anticipating a Joker broadcast and all that that entailed.

"Perfect," Vicki continued, her mind racing. "I've got them to agree to let me go on GCN to tell the story tomorrow morning, and I can start tweeting about it now."

"That's great, Vicki," Harley smirked, and Vicki sighed happily, her ambition blotting out her concerns about being used.

"Alright, I gotta take off and get this prepped but... listen, Harley," her eyes darted to the hotel door, which Harley had left propped open, and then she looked down to see Harley was only wearing underwear and a tee-shirt, and she frowned. "Are you sure you know what you're doing with him? I mean..."

Harley sighed. "No, not really," she confessed, thinking back to the conversation she'd been in the middle of just before Vicki had knocked. "But I can look after myself."

"I know you can," Vicki grinned. "Thanks for this, Harley."

Harley smiled as she watched Vicki walk away with a bounce in her step, then slipped back into the room, leaning against the door once she'd closed it. The Joker was sitting up against the headboard, tugging the elastic out of his hair so it flopped over his forehead appealingly, and something Sofia had said once floated to the front of Harley's mind:  _appealingly filthy_. He looked up from his phone when she reappeared, his eyes sweeping over her quickly as he licked the scar splitting his bottom lip.

Harley tugged his shirt off over her head as she padded back to him, and he lifted an eyebrow as she stepped out of her underwear and climbed naked onto the bed and into his lap. His hands immediately landed on her waist, pulling her closer, and his jeans scraped the inside of her thighs as she settled in to straddle him, and as she bent down to kiss him lazily, she could feel her body reacting powerfully to him.

"Hmm," he growled when she pulled back, his eyes heavy as one of his hands skated her spine. "Is this more of the uh, airport hotels making you...  _needy_  thing?"

"I don't think so," Harley sighed, undoing his shirt buttons before she looked up at him. "I think this is just what you do to me."

Harley saw his Adam's apple bob when she said this, and she smirked as she bowed down to kiss him again.

* * *

The Joker woke up like he usually did; his eyes snapped open and he was conscious, ready to go. The room was full of hazy violet light from dawn outside, and beside him, Harley was snoring away like a freight train. He rolled over to look at her, at her touselled blonde hair on the pillow and the curve of her spine, the dip of her waist just above where the sheet rested on her hip.

He had spent more time in a bed in the last five days than he had in the past two months. Beds weren't necessary for sleeping, sleeping could be caught up on anywhere, but they were one creature comfort he suspected Harley wouldn't give up. The Joker wasn't one for compromise or negotiation, but he was practical, and there were few things about beds and Harley that he disliked.

His stomach muscles were sore after a few hours spent rolling around with her, finding positions that wouldn't hurt her arm but would also make her go all gaspy and rubbery for him. Then she'd woken him up twice in the night, wanting him to satisfy her again. He sensed it had something to do with involving her in his plot for the Mayor, when on three occasions now he'd seen her get flustered when their  _relationship status_  had been questioned. First, the bank manager, then Vicki Vale, then Sofia.

Harley was a planner by nature, and the Joker could tell she was craving some long term reassurance. But that was intellectually dishonest if you were going to accept the chaos of the world, or even nature itself. The Joker couldn't find it in him to give her the reassurance she was craving, even though he knew it was what she wanted. If he didn't feel the  _urge_ , then he didn't act, no matter the circumstances or what was on the line.

What was on the line was Harley sticking around. Her usefulness appeared to be endless, and it even surprised the Joker how she helped balance things out when they worked together. Sometimes a gentle touch was needed, and honey  _would_  get you more, and she excelled at those approaches which he didn't have the patience for. By that same token, she could be fucking terrifying when she wanted to be, and he'd realized long ago that she was an ideas person—she knew how to make the message more potent, how to make it  _stick._ The fact that she was entertaining and endlessly eager to have his cock inside her were excellent asides, but what the Joker was starting to realize was she made his _work_  better, and he was  _all_  about the work.

There was also that constant, possessive voice in the back of his brain that just wanted to...  _touch_   _her_. All the time. It was  _relentless_.

But more importantly, were  _events forthcoming_  to consider. Something Harley said to him yesterday had stuck with him, and he thought he may have a solution that appealed to him in a big way. He just needed her input.

The Joker rolled over and grabbed her arm, tugging her onto her back. She sighed sleepily, blinking up at him in the hazy blue light of dawn.

"What do people care more about than hospitals?" He growled, and she ran her hand through her hair, pushing it off her face as she tried to wake up faster.

"Um," she shut her eyes thoughtfully, and when she opened them, she was serious but still not quite awake. "Children," she said sleepily, then, as she realized what he was getting at, because more and more often they were on the same page these days... " _Kindergartens_ ," she clarified.

The Joker felt something giddy and nervous sweep through him. Blowing up a kindergarten was as violent and brazen and downright  _evil_  as you could get, all of which appealed to him vastly more than some clever body politic manipulation and mayor kidnapping. That she was the one suggesting it made it even better.

"Come here," she said, smiling up at him coyly, and the Joker lifted an eyebrow but wasn't inclined to protest.

He shifted on top of her, kissing her lazily as he settled between her legs and braced his arm beneath her. She made a wonderful little sound when he slipped a finger inside her, and he didn't bother to hide an indulgent sigh over how wet she already was. Like she woke up that way for him. He licked his finger because she always tasted  _so_  good, but when he started to move down her body, she pawed at his back, too impatient to let him go down on her.

When he started to fuck her, she squirmed and clenched around him, making more excellent, breathy sounds while her head fell back and her chest heaved. He finished before she had a chance to get off, and even though the Joker couldn't find the inspiration to make Harley feel better about the future, he found an overwhelming amount of motivation to make her come as hard as he was capable. He stayed inside her, filling her as he rubbed her clit and pulled her hair the way she liked, and when she came she arched beneath him, breathing more sweet, soft sounds as her body spasmed and fluttered around his cock, making his eyes roll back in his head because she always felt so  _good_.

Then after a few seconds of silence, she laughed quietly, and her head fell to the side as she closed her eyes, thinking again. The Joker felt himself get sucked in, wanting to know what her brain was doing, sensing it was something _mean,_ and finally, she said, "I bet we could get people in a few schools as substitute teachers... probably by tomorrow morning if we work fast."

A lesser man might have been terrified to want a person as badly as the Joker wanted Harley at that moment. But the Joker feared nothing and no one, so it was easy to finally decide what he was going to do about Harley Quinn.

But before he had a chance to tell her, she nudged him away and sat up, stretching before she got out of bed and padded to the bathroom. He watched her go because not looking at her walking naked across the room wasn't an option. He heard the shower turn on and decided he could talk to her anytime. Shower sex was too good to pass up, and they had a big day ahead of them.

* * *

**A/N:** **Last chapter + a quick epilogue next week, you guys. We're SO CLOSE.**

**And if you haven't already heard... there's a "Holiday Special" coming out on Christmas Day.**

**I've made a tumblr  --** **knit-wear-it --** **if you want to follow for future updates on this series. I don't know what the hell I'm doing but I've been told that's the nature of tumblr.**

**Next: Harley and the Joker cause a ruckus.**

**Please comment! xo**


	32. Chapter 32

The Harlequin

32.

* * *

At 7 AM, Harley picked up the former detective Ramirez from her hotel room and drove her to the station to catch her bus. Harley hugged her goodbye and reassured her they would leave her alone, and she should get in touch with Vicki if she needed anything. Harley might have suggested it wouldn't be good for Vicki if Ramierz told people Harley had been involved, but Ramirez shouldn't feel  _compelled_  to omit Harley's role in connecting them. Not unless she wanted to...

For Vicki's sake.

Vicki dropped Harley a text to say she was on a GCN panel at 10 AM, so Harley returned to the hotel and joined the Joker in the bathroom where he was shaving with a disposable razor. Harley sat down on the closed toilet seat beside the sink and opened a map of kindergartens around the city on her phone. It turned out the school district included kindergarten in the elementary schools, so Harley drew up a list and tapped out a message to Sergey, who was so  _thrilled_  about the opportunity to blow up four elementary schools in under forty-eight hours that he offered to do the job for free.

"I  _knew_  I liked that guy," the Joker smirked. That smirk stuck around until Lonnie called, predictably being a fucking pain in the ass about everything. Harley fought back a grin as she watched the Joker pace and rant and throw his hands up in frustration. Lonnie was hacking the school systems to find an appropriate teacher from each school. Young, single teachers of the first and second grades were the ideals.

Then it was 10 AM, time for Vicki's appearance on _Gotham This Morning_ , where she recounted Detective Ramirez's story of being held at gunpoint by Harvey Dent to the show's host, Naomi Meadows.

 _"Oh,_  yeah," the Joker growled, watching Vicki suggest that perhaps the Batman had had a good reason to kill Gotham's late DA after all, and that Commissioner Gordon had covered it up to protect Dent. "That's gonna hurt Gordon...  _big_  time."

* * *

Breakfast in the penthouse had become an awkward affair in recent weeks, but Alfred would gladly take awkward over non-existant. Since Ms Drake had taken up residence with them on the top floor of Wayne Tower, Bruce had developed a taste for hearty plates at the breakfast bar each morning, a welcome shift from his typical ambivalence to the meal. It was a small change, but it was one of many Alfred had noticed since Dinah appeared in their lives. It was clear Bruce wasn't entirely sure how to deal with a seventeen-year-old girl, but it was also clear he felt an obligation to care for her in ways he frequently did not look after himself.

Selfishly, Alfred enjoyed Dinah staying with them, allowing him to have a young charge again.

In general, things were looking up, at least in a personal sense, by Alfred's measure. But when he walked into the breakfast bar that morning, the sight of two empty chairs and a pair of untouched breakfasts made foreboding prickle at the back of Alfred's neck. He sighed, resigning himself to what would inevitably come next as he followed the quiet sounds of the television playing into the living room.

Dinah sat on the white sofa with her feet tucked beneath her as she stared intently at the television. Bruce stood beside her, one arm folded tight across his chest, his fist pressed to his mouth as he frowned at the screen.

They were watching  _Gotham This Morning_ , where Vicki Vale was alleging that Harvey Dent had assaulted former-Detective Anna Ramirez the day he died.

Alfred's sense of foreboding only grew as Ms Vale claimed that Harvey Dent might not have been as good as people thought, and even more shocking, her suggestion of a cover-up by the MCU, framing the Batman for Dent's crimes.

Alfred's old eyes settled on Bruce, watching him react to this twist in the plot when Dinah abruptly spoke up.

"Is it true?" She demanded, looking up at Bruce, her expression grim.

Alfred rotated around to give them some privacy, but he could hear Bruce sigh heavily before he left the room.

This was a conversation they were always going to need to have if they were to be partners, but it was unfortunate it was happening because of the Joker.

Alfred could only thank God that Bruce had Dinah to watch his back now.

* * *

At noon Harley and the Joker gathered the henchmen who could be trusted with the delicate art of posing as elementary school teachers: Marty, Sly, and someone called Icebox whom Marty vouched for. Harley would be the fourth substitute teacher stand-in.

Even with a handful of henchmen intricate to the plan, none of them knew the  _real_  reason they were kidnapping teachers and planting bombs in elementary school. Just as none of the clowns involved in the Mayor plot knew why they were doing it or what would happen to the Mayor once they handed him over.

Harley was the only one who knew as much as the Joker.

It was mid-afternoon by the time the details of the teacher-kidnappings were ironed out, and they moved on to Sergey's brownstone Downtown. This time he was significantly friendlier toward the Joker, something Harley attributed to knowing the Joker would bring even more opportunities for flaming death and destruction his way.

"Harlequin lady," he beamed at Harley before turning to the Joker and giving him a rueful smile. "And Joker man."

Sergey already had his own minions working on securing the materials to make the bombs. He showed them a detonator with a three-foot-long antenna, and he and the Joker discussed technical things about ranges and charges that Harley didn't understand, but it seemed to make the Joker happy. Sergey even showed him a few other projects he was working on. The Joker crossed his arms and nodded, making impressed sounds while Sergey demurred like he was embarrassed about the praise.

Then they moved on to the explosive chopper, the chaotic misdirection that would allow them to grab the Mayor from the gala. It was all ready to go, waiting in a semi-truck in South Channel. There was one fly in the ointment: who was going to fly it?

* * *

Janice Porter had never given her predecessor's demise much thought. Harvey Dent: cut down in his prime by the Batman. Only in Gotham, was the most pushback it got, and Janice had met Dent enough times to know he was as squeaky-clean as they came, never giving her reason to doubt the story.

That was until Vicki Vale went on  _Gotham This Morning_  claiming Dent had threatened to murder a detective he blamed for his girlfriend's death, raising a hell of a lot of questions about what  _really_  happened the night he died. The Mayor was livid, and having just signed the Dent Act into law less than forty-eight hours earlier, it was a public relations nightmare. There was something stinky about all of this, and as a prosecutor, Janice could smell it a mile off.

She was waiting outside the Mayor's office at City Hall, both of her assistants murmuring together over their phones, obviously consuming the social media maelstrom on Vale's reporting. It reminded Janice of how just weeks earlier Jim Gordon had sat across from her in her office, threatening to blackmail her if she didn't do his bidding. Blackmail he had acquired with the help of the Batman, even though he'd allegedly killed Dent.

Oh, it stank to high heaven.

"Janice," the Mayor greeted her shortly as he came storming up the hallway, an army of aids and publicists trailing after him.

"Mayor Garcia," she replied grimly, rising to her feet.

The Mayor shuffled them both into his office, leaving their aids out in the hall so they could speak openly with each other.

"Gordon couldn't have warned us he's got a disgruntled former employee with a vendetta against Dent?" the Mayor complained, circling his desk to sit behind it, then grabbing a bottle of scotch out of a drawer. "I thought Dent wasn't supposed to have any skeletons in his closet."

"Disgruntled?" Janice frowned, lowering herself into one of the chairs facing the desk. "Detective Ramirez was assaulted with a firearm."

"Well, that's how we're going to have to spin it, aren't we," the Mayor snapped, slamming the scotch down on his desk. "Why else would she come forward the day after we sign the Dent Act? The timing is too perfect."

"Mr Mayor, we might be looking at a legitimate cover-up scheme by the MCU," Janice replied cautiously.

"Let's be honest with each other," the Mayor folded his elbows on the desk and leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. "You were elected to your office, not appointed, and I can't control what you do. But we both know you hate Gordon because he forced you to do your job."

"That doesn't mean Gordon gets carte-blanche to do whatever he wants," Janice bristled indignantly. "If Dent went on some kind of  _rampage_  before he died—"

"Rampage?" the Mayor laughed shortly, and slopped a few fingers of scotch into two glasses, sliding one across the desk to Janice, who ignored it. "Ramirez was a crooked cop, and her story is Dent hit her. Frankly, I would have done a lot worse if it was my wife who got blown up."

"Vicki Vale is suggesting Dent did a hell of a lot more than hit a crooked cop," Janice countered, watching the Mayor knock back his scotch.

"Vicki Vale is a salacious hack," he replied derisively. "I trust Gordon."

"People are going to have more questions," Janice promised him gravely as she rose to her feet. "This thing stinks to high heaven."

* * *

School let out at 3 PM, so while the Joker dealt with finding someone to pilot the chopper, Harley took the Crown Vic to her teacher's apartment to have a look around. She would be kidnapping Bonnie Hunter, a mousey-looking twenty-six-year-old second-grade teacher. Bonnie seemed to live a lonely existence from what Harley could see of her apartment, exemplified in the urn sitting beside a photo of a big orange cat over the television.

Everywhere she looked, Harley was reminded of her life when she worked at Arkham, although Bonnie's clothes were a different level of frumpy, and there was obviously a certain kind of loneliness at play, the streaming suggestions on her TV making it clear Bonnie watched a lot of reality shows about finding true love. She wanted a different life, but she wasn't willing to let herself have it, or maybe she just wasn't capable of it.

Deciding it was a safe bet that Bonnie would come straight home after work to watch her reality shows, Harley headed over to Central Gotham Elementary to wait her out. While she waited, she caught up with the news of the day and wasn't the least bit surprised to discover people were obsessed with the story of Harvey Dent attacking and threatening to kill a former cop. Steve Lombard from the Gothamite was calling for a City Hall investigation into Gordon if he did, in fact _, "suggest"_ that a detective keep this information to herself so he and the Mayor could pass the Dent Act.

The Mayor was unavailable for comment, but City Hall pundits were making the rounds, calling Vicki a salacious hack who couldn't be trusted on TV and social media.

Bonnie finally appeared three hours after school let out, climbing into her dusty little Jetta and heading straight back to her apartment Downtown with Harley following two car lengths behind her, just as Bruno had taught her.

Harley parked on the street and peered up at the side of the building, then settled in to wait. Just as it was getting dark, the passenger door opened, and the Joker ducked in, toting a large pizza box and flashing Harley a roguish grin.

"You read my mind," Harley groaned, diving into the box and nearly inhaling a slice as the Joker did the same.

"How's the teacher?" He asked, eyeballing the front of the apartment curiously.

"Boring," Harley sighed. "I want to get this over with quickly, and I still need to get a dress."

The Joker hummed his approval for this plan and shot her a sideways look. "I don't think you're gonna like the pilot."

"Since when do you care what I like?" Harley replied flatly, making the Joker laugh throatily. "So, who is it?"

"Sly and me went down to the VA," he said coyly. "Found a guy who agreed to fly the chopper, but uh, he's not aware of the whole..."

"Blowing up mid-air and crashing into the side of the Ritz thing?" Harley offered, rolling her eyes. "How did you get him to agree to that?"

"Uhh... guy  _may_  have some  _light_  PTSD," the Joker's eyes rolled over Harley quickly. " _Arkham_  kicked him out for not being _mean_  enough."

Harley made a face. So they were using a vet who wasn't being treated for his mental health problems. She didn't really like it, but she saw the benefits, and it wasn't like they would  _torture_  the guy. He would just be blown up, clean and simple. So Harley shrugged and made a reluctant sound in the back of her throat, but otherwise didn't protest.

 _"Interesting_ ," the Joker hummed, squinting at her with that dark, curious look he frequently turned on her.

"What?" Harley asked, self-conscious.

"I can  _never_  guess what's gonna tickle those morals of yours," he drawled, shooting her a lazy smirk. "It  _never_  gets old."

Harley's cheeks got warm when he said this because " _it never gets old"_  was high praise coming from the Joker, but she tried to hide it anyway, aiming for nonchalant.

"I like to keep it interesting for you," she quipped as she pushed her door open. "Let's get this teacher and make it fast."

Subduing Bonnie was easy enough, but getting her out of the building and down the fire escape was harder, like something from  _Weekend at Bernie's_  but less funny because she was unconscious and not dead, and they wanted to keep her that way. Harley and the Joker hissed and snapped at one another as they maneuvered Bonnie down the fire escape, being out in the open and tight on time making them both antsy.

Once Bonnie was in the trunk, the tension cooled down a few degrees, and Harley turned on the radio to distract herself from the fact that she was nervous about the Joker being annoyed at her. Would that be all it took for this alliance to break down? If she annoyed him enough, would he haul off and shoot her or just up and leave her?

Harley mulled over the  _temporary-ness_  of what was going on between them, and how she felt about it throughout the silent forty-minute drive to the Bowery where José was waiting with all the necessary supplies to keep four hostages alive for a few days. But when they got out of the car and circled to the trunk, the Joker stopped Harley from opening it, taking hold of her wrist and yanking her close with more of that  _grabbiness_  that had characterized the last few days.

Harley looked up at him, wondering if he would always be as compelling and mysterious to her as he'd ever been. Even if she knew him better, and sometimes she felt close to him in a way that seemed impossible for someone so impenetrable, she was still as fascinated by him now as she was the first day he walked through the door at Arkham.

The Joker cocked his head to the side and squinted down at her curiously, then lifted his index finger and pressed it against her forehead.

" _Stop_ ," he ordered, raising a knowing eyebrow at her before he gave her forehead a tap.

Harley's eyes widened, realizing he was reading her mood  _perfectly,_  something that should have been impossible for him, and yet here he was, telling her to stop overthinking things without needing to spell it out.  _Understanding her._

Of all the moments she'd felt implausibly close to him, this moment by far outstripped the rest.

She stared up at him, slightly shellshocked, and she saw anticipation start to bleed into his expression as he looked down at her. Like he couldn't wait to see what she'd do or say next.

And suddenly, Harley understood. All those curious looks and intense stares, frowning at her like a puzzle he couldn't work out, finding her choices so  _very_  entertaining. From their first session at Arkham to that very morning when they were rolling around in bed together, the Joker looked at her like she was something unfathomable. But if he understood her as well as he'd just proven he did, that meant this wasn't about curiosity or being  _entertained_  anymore—this was  _fascination_.

He was  _fascinated_  by her.

Harley realized a lot was going unsaid in the heavy look he was leveling at her, and she could not be willfully stupid by refusing to read into it. She couldn't fathom a world where they had a conversation about  _any_  of this. It would always go unsaid, and whatever reassurances Harley needed would have to come from her own capacity to interpret him.

And no one knew the Joker like Harley did.

The Joker's hand shifted to the side of her face to smooth her hair back, making Harley's shoulders tense as she tried to wrap her head around her fascination with him being reciprocated, and what that meant for both of them.

"How about a quickie in the back seat," he suggested, flashing her lazy smirk.

Harley laughed, the tension slipping away as she slid her hands up his chest, fully on board with this plan even if there was a woman in the trunk. But then José appeared behind them, and Bonnie started whining, and the Joker huffed impatiently as Harley stepped away from him.

"Later," she promised slyly.

Harley stood back to watch Jose help the Joker get Bonnie out of the trunk and into the derelict office block that would be her home for the next few days. Sly, Marty, and Icebox had yet to return with their teachers, but they had fewer things to worry about and more time to fill. Actually _, Marty's_  plate was probably a little full since he was dealing with a teacher and the whole Slimeball-Mayor-Security set up, but the Joker waved her off when she suggested this to him.

"He'll adapt," he announced crisply, which felt particularly revealing. It crystallized how the Joker viewed the people around him. Adapt or die was the implication, something Harley excelled at.

Marty was attempting to fill Bruno's old role of administrative assistant and henchman-rallier, allowing the Joker to be the brains behind the operation without having to deal with people or tedious tasks. There had always been a small group of especially devoted minions around the Joker—or maybe  _disciples_  was more accurate. He inspired them to do his bidding without question, and it was only with this layer of back up that he was able to create those big, meaningful moments where he brought the city to its knees.

How did Harley fit in? How did the Joker view her in his operation?

She could feel him looking at her when they got back in the car, and when she glanced his way, he caught her eye, raising an eyebrow at her again.

Harley understood; it was as if his thoughts were being beamed straight into her head.  _Stop overthinking it._

It was that simple.

* * *

It was still humid as the summer drew to a close, making the garbage piled up in the street and down back alleys sweat and stink. Bruce lurked down one of these alleys, hidden in the shadow of a pile of black trash bags stacked chest high, a result of Downtown Gotham's constant lack of funding for their sanitation workers. These were the kinds of problems Bruce Wayne could help solve—bigger paychecks for garbage men, better waste disposal systems—but Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, could do very little to stop the Joker on his own.

A car with a busted taillight backed into the alley, its engine still running as the passenger door opened, and Commissioner Gordon climbed out. He edged past the car into the alley, his eyes swinging left and right, taking in the creaky fire escapes overhead before Bruce made himself known.

"How are things at the station," Bruce rumbled before Gordon had a chance to greet him.

"Not good," Gordon admitted. "But that's been the case for a while now."

"Do they believe it?" Bruce frowned.

"It's hard to say," Gordon sighed, shooting Bruce a pointed look. "Some of the boys still resent Dent for investigating them, but they were the ones working for Penguin."

"And the others?" Bruce asked, knowing the politics of corruption at the GCPD was a complicated web.

"Supporting me for now," Gordon said, glancing over his shoulder at the car waiting for him. "But if Vale turns up anything else, we're screwed."

"What else could she turn up?" Bruce narrowed his eyes.

"My wife," Gordon said, sounding uncharacteristically bitter. "She won't take my calls. I honestly don't know what she'll say if Vale reaches out to her."

"We have to get ahead of this," Bruce rumbled. "All people know is that Harvey attacked Ramirez. Everything else is speculation."

"We can't keep lying," Gordon shot back. "We're digging our own graves here."

Bruce hesitated, seeing for the first time that Gordon was on the precipice of going forward with the truth. So far, Vicki Vale had revealed a small but damaging piece of the puzzle, but only Gordon could fill in the blanks to what happened that night.

Or his estranged wife...

"The Joker turned Harvey into Two-Face to demoralize Gotham," Bruce said gruffly. "He'll attack the Gala to double down on the doubt people are feeling, I'm sure of it."

Gordon sighed loudly, sounding tired as he glanced over his shoulder at the car again.

"There are already plans for a heavy police presence tomorrow night, but I'll make sure we've got people inside the Gala too," he said, his face tense. "When the Joker makes his grand entrance, we'll be ready for him."

"Do not underestimate Harley," Bruce recommended, catching Gordon's eye. "We don't know what she's capable of yet."

* * *

After securing their teacher-hostages, Harley and the Joker stopped at the Tailor's to pick up her dress. The Joker paced impatiently while Harley tried on a strapless maroon number with a sweetheart neckline and off the shoulder sleeves to cover her bullet wound.

She pushed back the curtain dramatically, lifting her chin as she swayed out onto the shop floor to show him the dress, and he cracked a smirk, humming thoughtfully.

"Where am I going to keep my gun, though?" Harley frowned, patting down the nearly skin-tight gown.

"You don't need a gun," the Joker drawled, sidling up to her, his eyes drifting over her bare shoulders.

"What do you mean, I don't need a gun?" Harley lifted a curious eyebrow as he ran the tip of his finger down her arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

"I already  _told_  ya," the Joker said slyly, lifting his eyes to hers and cocking one eyebrow. "You look better in a dress than me _... Much_  better. You just need to keep an eye on things."

"I thought that was hyperbole," Harley shrugged. "What about..."

She trailed off when the Joker narrowed his eyes at her, and once again, Harley could see as clear as day what he was thinking. He wanted her to run things on the ground. No one else would do. She was the only one he wanted.

Only Harley.

In a rush, she remembered things Bruno had said in passing, back when all of this first started.

_He likes you, and he don't normally like people._

_He respects you._

_Don't you understand he listens to you?_

She had never taken it seriously before; never wanted to.

But it all made some cosmic kind of sense now.

The Joker continued to stroke her arm absentmindedly, one corner of his mouth curling up smugly because he'd figured this all out before her, Harley realized, if only by a matter of hours or maybe days, her stubborn nature making her slow on the uptake.

 _Asshole,_  Harley thought affectionately, watching his smirk grow like he was reading her mind _._

"Alright," she agreed, fighting a stupid smirk of her own.

* * *

It was after midnight now, and the substitute teacher part of the job would start at 6 AM the next morning, followed by a long day of pretending to be a teacher before the gala when their plans—or  _events forthcoming_  as the Joker called them—would finally be put in motion, and Harley was keen to get some sleep before then. They made one last stop at Sergey's to pick up her pack of explosives and charges, which were packaged up nicely in a backpack no one would think wiser of, then finally they headed back to Bonnie's place to get some sleep.

But once they'd made their way back up the fire escape and into Bonnie's room, the Joker immediately shoved Harley down on the bed, and even though she was tired, Harley dragged him down on top her, almost tearing his shirt in her hurry to get it off him.

She could feel the nervous energy racing through his body after a day of talking and plotting and very little action. She could feel it in the way he squeezed her waist too hard, and how he nearly ripped her underwear in half getting them off her, and how he hauled her on top of him to get her where he wanted her. Sex with the Joker was always intense, whether it lasted a few minutes in the back of a car, or hours when they had the time, but it felt even more all-consuming that evening, and not just because of the tension of the day. It was like a dam had broken, or a paradigm had shifted. It was this new layer of silent  _understanding_  that had settled between them.

When they couldn't go on any longer, Harley fell forward on top of him, trying to catch her breath with his heart thudding up into hers. She stayed there until she found the strength to roll sideways and fall onto the bed beside him, her head swimming and her body tingling.

She let her head flop to the side so she could look at the Joker and laughed when she saw he was frowning at the ceiling, blinking hard.

"Are you okay?" She asked, raising up on her bad arm. It hurt, but she ignored it.

"Mmm," he confirmed with a light hum as his face tipped towards her. "I'm thinkin' about our friend the  _police_  commissioner," he said, narrowing his eyes.

" _That's_  who you're thinking about?" Harley laughed.

The Joker rolled his eyes. "I can think about  _multiple_  things at once, Harl."

"Uh huh," she grinned crookedly at him, but now he'd put the thought in her head, she wanted to discuss it. "You don't really think there's a chance Gordon will cave over the schools, do you?"

"Eh," the Joker shrugged as if he couldn't have cared less, which was remarkable considering the premise for everything they were doing was getting Gordon to talk.

"We're only giving him a twenty-minute window to speak up," Harley pointed out.

"Good thing we've still got four teachers to play with," the Joker pointed out, his eyes rolling up to meet hers.

Harley could feel herself smiling stupidly at him and cleared her throat. "So, what  _are_  we going to do with the teachers?"

The Joker lifted a lazy eyebrow at her, his mouth spreading into a smirk. "Whatever we want," he said slyly.

 _We,_  Harley thought, her smile growing again as all the melancholy and uncertainty flew far, far away, forgotten as the unnecessary insecurities of a woman who allowed herself to be tied down by things she had evolved beyond.

She sighed happily, her eyes sweeping over him, knowing there was one way to  _really_  test how temporary all of this was.

Harley braced herself on her elbow and caught the Joker's eye, her heart suddenly pounding in her throat.

"How did you get the scars?" She asked softly.

The Joker's eyebrows rose appraisingly, and the corner of his mouth twitched. He looked both pleased and a little surprised, a gut-wrenching combination on him. Then he rolled his eyes out to the side and back to Harley again, and she nearly held her breath as he shifted to lean on an elbow so he was mirroring her.

"Well," he smirked, his dark eyes glittering mischievously. "It's a  _funny_  story..."

Then the Joker told Harley everything.

Everything she'd ever wanted to know and more.

* * *

They stayed up late talking, and Harley woke up at dawn with only a few hours of sleep under her belt. She grabbed a shower and dressed in an outfit of Bonnie's—skinny jeans and a teeshirt with a grumpy cat printed on the front, plus a pink cardigan with bobbles. A new costume. It was highly unlikely Bonnie would survive all of this anyway. They didn't have a definite plan for her yet, but once the Joker started talking about putting a suicide vest on you, there wasn't usually a way back from that.

He slept while Harley got ready for school, and she heard him grumble unhappily when one of the phones began ringing in the other room. It was the phone Lonnie had rerouted the substitute teacher roll call to, so Harley cleared her throat and smiled prettily before answering.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is that Marge Kuntz?"

Harley's face instantly soured. Fucking  _Lonnie._

"Yes, this is Marge Kuntz," Harley said, shooting the Joker a look to show her how unimpressed she was with his henchman's work, but he just grinned slyly, prodding his bottom lip with his tongue as he fired off a few texts to get things set in motion for the day.

"It _is_  pretty funny," he smirked when Harley got off the phone after confirming she was available to be a substitute teacher at Gotham Central Elementary.

"Uh huh," she agreed warily, struggling not to laugh because it  _was_  pretty funny.

Harley would take the Crown Vic to school, her backpack of C4 in tow, and the Joker would head back east to regroup with Marty and lay some further groundwork for that evening. As Harley was on her way out, he stopped her at the door.

"I got bad news," he told her, pretending to fight a shit-eating grin as he held up an envelope and waved it in her face.

"What," Harley narrowed her eyes and took the envelope from him. Inside was her ticket for the Harvey Dent Day Gala, which was also addressed to Marge Kuntz, making Harley laugh despite herself. She was used to men calling her names—a bitch, a cunt, a  _witch_ —why not lean into it?

Then it was time for school. Harley had perfectly planned when and where she would plant the bombs, but she hadn't prepared herself for a roomful of seven and eight-year-olds. However, as she had discovered with Barbie Gordon, she was pretty good with children, and by the end of the day, "Miss Kuntz" was being presented with drawings of herself from the kids' art time. The grumpy cat tee-shirt was a hit with them too, and as Harley secured C4 to the walls of the janitor's closet, she wondered how life would have turned out if she'd become an elementary school teacher instead of a psychologist.

With her penchant for feeling trapped by ordinary life, she probably would have ended up blowing up these schools anyway.

* * *

There was a massive portrait of Harvey Dent hanging on one wall of the Ritz Gotham's ballroom, Harvey's affable smirk beaming down at the Gala attendees. Gordon ran a hand over his jaw as he examined the portrait, the unease that had been rolling through him for almost two full days pulsing to the surface again.

Vicki Vale's reporting put Gordon in an unenviable position, not least because it came the day before an event honoring Harvey's memory, where Gordon was supposed to give a speech celebrating Gotham's late DA. That speech was on the backburner for now, though Gordon had considered using the opportunity to reveal the truth before it got turned on its head completely. But the truth wasn't what these Gala guests wanted to hear. Gordon had overheard more than one of them criticize Vale for her reporting, let alone the suggestion that Harvey's murder at the hands of the Batman was warranted. These were the people who had voted for Harvey Dent—we  _believe_  in Harvey Dent—and they couldn't fathom him being anything less than the White Knight they were promised he was.

Promised by Gordon, no less.

With a year of hindsight, the choices made in the wake of Harvey's death now seemed so incredibly... foolish. But feeling foolish was hardly at the top of Gordon's list of priorities presently. After months and months of silence, the Joker had re-appeared in public only days earlier to rob a bank with Harley Quinn. It was only a matter of time before he made a bigger move, and all past experience pointed to the Dent Day Gala as the most likely place.

Officers were patrolling a three-block radius around the Ritz, and SWAT teams were poised to intervene should anything happen. There were also cops circulating amongst the Gala's guests, drawing raised eyebrows in their cheap suits and coffee-stained shirts. But they were armed like Gordon was, and if the Joker showed up, they would take him down, no questions asked. They would end this once and for all before another Reign of Terror could kick-off.

"Are you alright?"

Gordon looked away from Harvey's portrait, offering Sergeant Sarah Essen a strained smile. Her wavy black hair was tucked behind her ears, her navy suit and flat shoes making her stand out more than her male colleagues beside the elegantly-dressed women present. Essen had become something of a shoulder for Gordon to lean on since Barbara left with the kids, and even if it wasn't entirely appropriate, he was glad to have her with him now.

"I'm fine," he reassured her, his eyes drifting back to Harvey's portrait.

"You look tired, Jim," Essen observed, her brown eyes warm with compassion.

"Yeah," Gordon sighed, still staring at the portrait, remembering Harvey's last moments. Remembering him holding a gun to his son's head. "I just want to get this sonofabitch once and for all."

"If the Joker tries anything here, he's a deadman," Essen pointed out, glancing at a group of armed detectives loitering near the canape table. "Didn't your _friend_  say he'd be nearby too?"

"He did," Gordon confirmed, thinking back to his conversation with the Batman the night before.

Essen put her hand on Gordon's elbow and offered him a small smile. "We're going to get him, Jim," she promised. " _Both_  of them."

"God, I hope so," Gordon muttered, just as the communicator in his ear informed him there was a helicopter flying low a block over.

"A helicopter?" Essen frowned, pressing a finger to her earpiece as she listened to the cops outside, their voices pitching up.

 _"It's coming in fast!"_  the voice in their ears insisted.

Before Gordon had a chance to act, there was a sudden, earsplitting explosion right outside the hotel, shaking the entire building. The ballroom's windows lit up, glowing brilliantly for a moment before the glass shattered, sending tiny shards spraying over the guests. A second later, something massive crashed into the side of the building, making it sway and moan as metal and brick ground together noisily.

Gordon threw himself on top of Essen, shielding her from the glass as chaos broke out around them. He lifted his head, half-expecting to see the Joker wade into the fray with his clowns and Harley Quinn at his side. But all Gordon saw was a terrified sea of guests fleeing as pandemonium set in.

* * *

Kidnapping the Mayor went off without a hitch. Harley kept an eye on the ballroom floor, dressed in her maroon dress and a ginger wig to disguise herself from the politicians and cops swarming the place. She braced herself for the fiery explosion and subsequent impact of the helicopter smashing into the side of the building, then ripped off her wig, painted her face quickly, and helped the clowns posing as security get the Mayor up to the roof. There they joined the Joker and Sergey in a second helicopter and took off into the night.

The guests were in such a panic, none of them even noticed her. But that had been the whole point.

The chopper landed a few miles south where Gotham General used to be. Now it was a massive dirt pit that had yet to see new construction despite the Mayor's promises.

Two unmarked utility vans were waiting for them, one for Sergey and the security clowns to escape in, one for Harley and the Joker to transport the Mayor. As the clowns and Sergey took off, Harley and the Joker forced the Mayor into the back of their van and into a wheelchair to make carting him around easier. Thus far, the Mayor had been nothing but an ideal hostage, glaring at them over the duct tape covering his mouth, but otherwise not making a fuss as they taped him to the wheelchair and slammed the doors shut on him.

Harley exhaled a long breath once they were on the road. She wasn't nervous, just excited with too much energy coursing through her after an elaborate and thoroughly successful escape, but no fight. She exhaled slowly through pursed lips, and beside her, the Joker chuckled as he merged onto the highway.

"Feelin' a little...  _tense?"_  He lifted an eyebrow, making himself look a little deranged the way his warpaint had smeared, then he dipped his hand into his overcoat to retrieve a silver flask.

Harley grinned and accepted the flask, taking a sip before she opened her clutch and passed him some coconut shrimp canapés she'd picked up from the Gala's buffet. The Joker chuckled under his breath, shooting her an amused look before nearly inhaling the canapes whole, toothpicks and all.

Harley turned her attention to the garment bag on the floor by her feet. He'd brought her the dark red Sofia Falcone suit and a gauzy, hot pink camisole that clashed horribly with the suit's burgundy color. She pictured the Joker riffling through her suitcase, his black eyes drawn to the hot pink like a magpie, maybe intentionally setting her up to look ridiculous since every item of clothing he wore had a deceptive purpose. Though recently, manipulating her victims seemed to be the primary motivator behind the clothes Harley wore.

Once she was dressed and booted— she'd swapped her spindly heels for more practical low-heeled ankle boots—Harley tucked the flask away in the inside pocket of her blazer and ducked into the back of the van where the Mayor was struggling against the duct tape keeping him in the wheelchair. She watched him for a moment, judging his state of mind, then cleared her throat to get his attention. She pressed one hand to the roof of the van to steady herself as she let the Mayor look her over, from her warpaint to her suit to her square-toed boots. He was scared and doing his best to cover it with anger. That was good. Harley could work with fear and a bruised ego.

She lowered herself onto a wooden utility box built into the side of the van so she was sitting across from the Mayor, holding his gaze dispassionately as she crossed one leg over the other and laced her hands together in her lap.

"I think we need to talk, " she sighed, offering the Mayor a rueful smile as his nostrils flared and hands clenched to fists. "Clear the air, you know?"

When she reached for the duct tape covering his mouth, he flinched hard, prompting Harley to lift an amused eyebrow as she edged the tape off his mouth, careful not hurt him. She folded the tape in half neatly and sat back on the supply box, meeting the Mayor's gaze.

"What the hell do you want with me?" He demanded after they'd sat in silence for a few long moments, eyeballing each other warily.

Harley pursed her lips, considering the best way to make the Mayor more amenable to her. She reached into her jacket for the flask and spun the cap off, then offered it to the Mayor.

His eyes darted between the flask and her painted face. "It's poisoned," he accused.

"Do you really think we'd go through all this trouble just to poison you?" Harley pointed out, and when he still didn't make a move to drink from the flask, she knocked back some herself. "It's just bourbon," she promised.

The Mayor hesitated, but ultimately lifted his chin and let Harley pour some liquor into his mouth, his shot nerves speaking louder than his objections to accepting a gesture of goodwill from the evil Harley Quinn.

"Now," she said, smiling once she'd tucked the flask away. "You were asking me why we kidnapped you."

"The Joker only does things for one reason," the Mayor snapped, his face darkening. "To sow chaos and kill as many people as he can."

Harley sighed through her nose, weighing up the validity of the Mayor's point. It was too simplistic, but arguing semantics with him wouldn't help her case.

"Maybe," she agreed, cocking her head to the side and lifting her eyebrows appraisingly. "But I'm not the Joker, am I?"

The Mayor stared at her, taken aback by this statement, and unsure what it meant both for him and Gotham.

"You were friends with Harvey Dent," Harley said carefully, watching the Mayor's face. "You golfed together, had cocktails at the club... maybe you even discussed how Dent was planning to propose to Rachel Dawes?"

"This is about  _Dent?"_  the Mayor demanded incredulously.

"I'm guessing he was going to use that double-sided coin to propose," Harley continued slyly, watching the Mayor's eyes widen in disbelief. "And I hear the boys at the MCU called him _Two-Face_. That's pretty ironic considering what happened to him."

"How..." the Mayor sputtered, his forehead sinking into a bewildered frown. "How could you possibly know that?"

"I know lots of things," Harley replied evasively. "What do you think about Vicki Vale's reporting that Dent attacked Ana Ramirez before the Batman killed him?"

The Mayor's mouth hardened as he considered his response, his eyes skirting out to the side almost guiltily.

"Dent was a good man," he said diplomatically, not looking at Harley.

"Was he  _really_  a good man?" Harley pushed back, feigning a wince. "Or was he a man so overcome by grief that he snapped? Attacking and killing the crooked cops responsible for Rachel's death. Using his damaged lucky coin to decide who would live and who would die because the  _system_  would never give him true justice, the  _one_  thing he fought his whole life and career for... Does  _that_  sound like the Harvey Dent you knew?"

The Mayor blinked rapidly as he considered what she was saying, probably remembering moments with Dent that lined up with this version she was painting for him.

"So, your theory," the Mayor said hesitantly. "Is that it was Dent and not the Batman who killed those cops? And the Batman killed Dent to stop him?"

Harley planted her elbow on her knee and dropped her chin into her palm, staring hard into the Mayor's eyes. She could see he was already on the cusp of believing Dent didn't live up to his status as Gotham's White Knight in his last days. Ramirez's story got him there, even if he was reluctant to accept it. Now it was time for the full story.

"The Batman saved the Joker when he had a chance to let him die," she said grimly. "Why would the Batman kill Dent and not the Joker?"

The Mayor licked his lips, his eyes darting down to the floor as he tried to come up with an answer to the most obvious question he and the rest of Gotham hadn't bothered to ask themselves.

"I... don't know," he admitted at length, staring at the floor, doubting himself just as all of Gotham would doubt itself once the truth was out.

"Why would Gordon lie about what happened?" Harley continued, doubling down on that doubt, letting it fester and take root inside him. "Maybe from some...  _misguided_  belief that only he and the Batman can  _save_  Gotham? That they two are the only ones  _good_  enough to do the job even if that means lying... Lying for the sake of passing legislation named for a serial killer?"

 _"Shit,"_  the Mayor hissed, squeezing his eyes shut.

Harley pulled out the flask again, taking a triumphant sip for herself before offering it to him.

"That's why we've kidnapped you," she explained cheerfully. "You're collateral to get Gordon to tell the truth."

" _Collateral_?" the Mayor sputtered, blinking rapidly. "I don't understand."

"Sure you do," Harley countered breezily. "We'll hold a press conference, and you'll relay everything we just discussed to the citizens of Gotham, and Gordon will have to come forward with the truth about what happened that night... or, we'll kill you."

The van bounced as they pulled off the street and onto a gravel road, its tires crunching noisily as they rolled along for a few minutes. Harley and the Mayor waited in silence as the van came to a stop, and the engine turned off. The driver's door opened and shut ominously, and the Mayor turned to stare at Harley, nervous like he'd forgotten the Joker was the one driving even though  _she_  had just threatened to kill him.

The van's back doors swung open, revealing the Joker, one hand braced on each door as he cocked his head to the side, his gaze bouncing over them.

"What're  _you_  two chattin' about?" he drawled.

The Mayor was quiet, perhaps deep in thought as they rolled the wheelchair down a plank and parked him outside the Tricorner warehouse. He remained quiet right up until they were inside, and he was confronted with all the fixings for the press conference Harley had promised him. Harley had to stifle a laugh as she absorbed what the Joker had constructed for them while she'd been babysitting schoolchildren and planting bombs in their sweet little bathrooms.

A massive American flag was draped across one wall and beside it a stand with a stuffed bald eagle staring blindly at them. In front of the flag, stood a low podium for the Mayor to give his speech while remaining bound to his wheelchair. Most of the warehouse was submerged in darkness, but stage lights brightly lighted the set, and behind the lights was a camera set up on a tripod.

"What the hell is this?" the Mayor demanded, craning his head around to look at Harley instead of at the Joker, apparently deciding Harley was the lesser of two evils.

"I told you," Harley replied, smiling sweetly at him. "Press conference, remember?"

"So I'm going to be one of your... your  _movies?"_  he blustered indignantly as Harley wheeled him over to the podium and parked his chair beside it.

"Pretty much," she chirped. "Someone's got to get Gordon to tell the truth."

"The  _truth,"_  the Mayor spat, growing agitated. "The truth? You expect me to believe this is about the truth? That you're some benevolent force to show people how things are? I don't buy it. I don't buy it at all! Why are you really doing this!"

Harley folded her arms and peered down at their visibly troubled Mayor. She suspected he was experiencing a personal crisis finding himself agreeing with Harley Quinn and the Joker even though he considered them to be evil, which made him question himself and everything he knew.

She considered explaining that the world was a cruel place, and they were simply showing people the truth of it. That the institutions of society couldn't be relied on, and human beings were ruthless monsters play-acting at civilization with their mystical moral code. All of those things were true, and Harley had even promised Ramirez and Vicki those were her reasons for doing what she did. It was the truth, but it wasn't _all_  there was to it.

The Mayor was right. Harley was not a benevolent truth-teller, and she had had enough intellectual dishonesty for one lifetime.

She planted her hands on the Mayor's duct-taped forearms and bent forward so she was looking him in the eye, leaning into his personal space until he reared back from her, his nostrils flaring.

"You want to know why?" Harley asked him quietly, feeling something confident plant its feet inside her. Something  _certain_. "Because you've  _fucked_  yourselves, all on your own," she sneered. "And now we're taking advantage of that to have some  _fun."_

The Mayor's eyes widened in horror as Harley started to reach into her suit jacket, but then the Joker grabbed her arm, yanking her back from the Mayor and forcing her around to face him.

He'd removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves, his gloves still on as he lifted a hand to smooth Harley's hair back from her face. There was a faint smile playing around the scarred corners of his mouth, something almost impossible to pick up on with the warpaint, but Harley could tell what she'd said pleased him— _delighted_  him even—and he hummed low in his throat as he threaded his gloved fingers into her hair.

"Mmm,  _that's_  more like it," he growled, his face dipping down to hers.

Harley grinned against his lips, a new sense of _entitlement_  washing over her as she accepted that yes, she was doing this because she wanted to stir up some chaos. It wasn't benevolent truth-telling... it was  _fun,_  and she didn't have to explain her actions to  _anyone_. This new world had no rules for her, and she would behave exactly how she wanted. This was the freedom she'd always craved. This was something different. This was something  _more_.

The Joker looped an arm around her, kissing her lazily as Harley leaned against him. It was dizzyingly freeing to be able to  _want_  each other and finally  _have_  each other in such a painfully simple way, though they'd made it complicated for far, far too long.

Harley sighed contentedly and folded her arms around the Joker's neck, trying to get closer, so close, maybe she could merge into him.

What a  _fantastic_  idea.

His arms tightened around her, and she sensed he was thinking something similar. They were on the same page with so little effort now, and that, above everything else, was the most intoxicating realization yet.

Wrapped up in each other, they forget about the Mayor until he started to sputter indignantly.

"You're both insane!" He shouted hoarsely, and Harley reluctantly pulled away from the Joker to shoot the Mayor an annoyed glare. He looked horrified. Offended by her.  _Scared_  of her. "You pretend to be some... some  _sane_  person, but look at you! You're just his sick clown girlfriend!"

Harley narrowed her eyes, disliking this characterization, but before she got a chance to raise her objections, the Joker stepped in.

"Hey, hey,  _hey,"_  he snapped, wagging a finger in the Mayor's face. "Not that our  _personal life_  is any of your business,  _buddy_ , but uh, we prefer a gender-neutral identification like  _partners,_  don't we Harl?"

Harley threw back her head and laughed, feeling nearly delirious as the Joker added something sarcastic about how they were  _progressives_ and  _just ahead of the curve._

They collapsed into laughter together, leaning against one another to stay upright as they howled while the Mayor kept on shouting about how they were crazy and she was brainwashed, and how could they think  _any_  of this was  _fun._  It was only when the Mayor claimed he would never deliver a press conference for them that Harley had to stifle the giggles spilling out of her. She pulled away from the Joker, wiping tears from her eyes.

"I can't believe I almost forgot!" she beamed at the Mayor. "You didn't think we wouldn't give you and Gordon some  _motivation_ , did you?"

"What are you talking about!" the Mayor bit out, his eyes on Harley's hand as it slipped into her jacket to retrieve the Halloween paint pallet she'd used to paint her face at the gala.

"After your press conference airs, Gordon will have twenty minutes to come forward with the truth," Harley informed him briskly. "And if he doesn't, well, then we'll blow up a few kindergartens and see if that changes his mind."

The blood drained from the Mayor's face, his eyes widening in horror as he stared up at Harley.

"So, you either get on camera and relay everything I told you to Gordon and the good people of Gotham," she continued cheerfully. "Or we blow those schools up anyway. It's  _your_  choice."

The Mayor couldn't seem to find anything to say in response to this, so Harley flicked open the paint pallet and grabbed him by the chin, forcing his head back as she squinted down at him.

"Do you prefer the Joker look or something more... Harley Quinn?" she raised one eyebrow, and when he just continued to stare at her, she smirked. "I'm feeling Harley Quinn."

* * *

Dinah ran her hand over the cowl Lucius Fox made to her size and specifications. It included a tracking device and communicator so she and Bruce could speak to each other, and it also looked remarkably like a bird, a possibly-accidental, but probably-not nod to the name the newspapers had given her for appearing like a warning before the Batman showed up.

It wasn't intentional. Dinah just wasn't as good at sticking to the shadows as Bruce was.

But she was learning.

She'd also learned that Harvey Dent had been a murderer when he died, and that the Joker had driven him to it. By taking the blame for Dent, Bruce had been trying to do the right thing, the noble, self-sacrificing thing, which Dinah was also learning was Bruce's preferred modus operandi. But regardless of how well-intentioned everyone had been, the facts were being reported as something grotesque. Dinah wanted to have a few words with Vicki Vale, an idea Bruce shot down immediately, saying they couldn't 'stifle the free press' whatever  _that_  was supposed to mean.

But beyond their philosophical dilemmas, things had gotten exponentially worse very quickly that evening. Both Bruce and Dinah knew there was virtually no chance Harley and the Joker didn't have plans for the Dent Day Gala, but they hadn't prepared for a flaming helicopter crashing into the side of the building. By the time Dinah burst out onto the roof, a second helicopter was already well on its way into the night sky, Harley and the Joker escaping with Mayor Garcia in tow.

Demoralized and without any new leads, Bruce and Dinah returned to the box park to meet Lucius, all three of them certain the Mayor's kidnapping was just the first in a string of shocking events they would need to be better prepared for.

Dinah eyed Bruce and Lucius warily as she listened to them debate the merits of a new facial recognition software Lucius was reluctant to use to help them find Harley and the Joker. It was CIA-grade tech that Lucius could supe up with some new Wayne Enterprises software, but it presented a moral dilemma they were both tip-toeing around.

There wasn't  _time_  to tip-toe, Dinah thought, growing frustrated as she set her cowl aside and joined the discussion.

"This is a waste of time," she announced, looking between Bruce and Lucius. "If there's any chance this can help us find them, we have to use it."

"I agree with your sense of urgency, Ms Drake," Lucius replied cautiously. "But I must point out that we have gone down this path before, and now we are facing the consequences of overstepping."

"Overstepping?" Dinah's eyes narrowed. "The entire purpose of the Batman is to work outside the law. If we don't use every tool at our disposal, we're responsible for the people they kill!"

"There is a difference between what is legal and what is moral," Lucius countered mildly, his eyes drifting to Bruce, who was frowning thoughtfully.

"The moral thing is keep people alive!" Dinah huffed, looking at Bruce too, hoping he would see things her way.

So far, all this partnership had done was to make Dinah feel like she belonged to something bigger than herself. But now that they were truly faced with the consequences of Harley and the Joker running free, planning God only knew what, it was painfully clear to Dinah that she had not made any progress at all. Sofia Falcone and her oligarch friend had slipped through their fingers, and they hadn't been able to stop the attack on the Gala or the Mayor getting kidnapped. Now, instead of doing something about the missing Mayor or figuring out the Joker's next move, they were standing around debating  _morality_  with some old scientist-slash-philosopher.

"She's right," Bruce said solemnly, meeting Dinah's eye. "Whatever it takes. If we can save one life, it's worth it."

Dinah inhaled a sharp, relieved breath, nodding in agreement.

Once Lucius was settled in front of a computer, a pair of reading glasses sliding down his freckled nose, Bruce turned to Dinah, his mouth pinched like he had something to say but didn't know how to say it.

"What?" Dinah demanded, growing impatient the longer the silence dragged on.

"I know you're frustrated," Bruce said slowly. "I feel the same way, but we can't get hot-headed, or we'll make a mistake."

"But we're just standing around wasting time while they're out there," Dinah hissed, her face falling. "We're  _failing_  people by not stopping them."

"Dinah," Bruce said, his hand landing on her shoulder, forcing her to meet his eye. "We are doing everything we can. It's going to be hard to catch both of them, but we can still save lives." He pressed his lips together, measuring his words. "You can't lose hope. If you lose hope, that's when they really win."

Dinah nodded slowly, turning this sentiment over in her head. Hope was not something she was well acquainted with, but if joining forces with Bruce and becoming the Canary had taught her anything, hope was powerful. It was the antithesis of the chaos and violence the Joker preached. Even if the Batman and Canary thrived in the shadows, hope was the light that guided them, cutting through the darkness like a beacon in the night. Even with all Bruce's fancy technology and stealthy tricks, hope was the most valuable thing Dinah had learned from him yet.

And he was right. If they could save one life, it was worth it.

* * *

After Harley painted the Mayor's face to match hers, she left him with the Joker to film their press conference while she slipped outside to make a few calls. First and foremost to Bullock, who sounded exhausted and sober—for once—while sirens screamed behind him. He nervously informed her there was a manhunt underway, but mostly everyone was terrified and didn't know what to do. Gordon, he said, was panicking.

" _Thank_  you, Bullock," Harley cooed sweetly. "You're such a peach, looking out for me. I don't know what I'd do without you," she sighed girlishly.

After Bullock blustered a few protestations that it was no problem and he was happy to help, Harley made a few more calls to Marty, Lonnie, and Sergey, just to check in and keep them all on their toes. Then she slipped back into the warehouse to find the Joker standing a few feet back from the tripod, watching the Mayor gave a stiff, half-improvised speech about what they discussed in the back of the van. She sidled up to him in the half-darkness, folding her arms over her chest as she watched the Mayor sweat under the hot stage lights. He looked more anxious than when Harley left them, and she suspected there had been a  _discussion_  or two to get the Mayor to deliver what they were after.

"Ya know," the Joker said suddenly, keeping his voice low as he spoke to Harley out of the corner of his mouth. "Serge showed me somethin' earlier that I just  _can't_  stop thinking about."

"Yeah?" Harley twisted to look up at him. "What kind of something?"

"Something  _mean,"_  he hummed, narrowing his eyes at the Mayor. "Something as  _small_  your thumbnail... with a blast radius of  _four_  feet."

"Four feet?" Harley's eyebrows jumped, finding it hard to believe something so small could create such a big explosion. But she knew virtually nothing about explosives aside from that it was best to be out of the way when they went off.

"Mmmhm," the Joker growled, still squinting at the Mayor.

Harley glanced between the Joker and the Mayor, taking note that he was eyeing him almost clinically as he prodded his bottom lip with his tongue.

Her eyes widened in the darkness as she realized what he was proposing. "Are you thinking of... putting it  _inside_  him?"

"Pretty much," the Joker said gruffly, glancing down at her speculatively to get her take.

Harley narrowed her eyes at the Mayor as she thought through the practicalities of this play. What it would take to get the device  _inside_  him, keep it in him without anyone noticing, and have it go off at the opportune moment...

"So we'd have to give him back," Harley mused, and the Joker hummed his agreement. "Or at least... make Gordon think we  _lost_  him."

 _"There'_ s the tricky part," the Joker drawled with a self-satisfied smirk. "We're just too  _good_ to lose a hostage."

"Well," Harley said slowly, a smile tugging at her lips as something  _abhorrent_  came to her. "Say we get...  _distracted_  by the next phase of our master plan."

"Our master plan?" the Joker chuckled drily. "And uh... what might  _that_  be?"

"The teachers," Harley said slyly, a shiver of delight rolling through her when the Joker's eyebrows rose appraisingly and he turned to face her fully, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Don't you think it's a little uh..." He licked his bottom lip reflexively like he was  _excited_. "Premature...?"

"We don't need to give up the teachers," Harley explained, stifling a grin. "We just blow up their houses when Gordon's SWAT teams go looking for them."

The Joker's head fell back, and one of those throaty laughs Harley enjoyed so much jumped past his lips before he faced her again, looking more pleased than she'd ever seen him.  _Proud_.

"You wanna blow up the teachers' houses and Gordon's pigs to make em' think we're  _so_  distracted that we lost track of the Mayor?" He rocked back on his heels, looking  _beyond_  pleased. Like this collaboration was the most fun he'd had  _ever_.

"We tell Gordon who the teachers are," Harley continued, her hand curling around his tie as she looked up at him from under her eyelashes. "Then, when his boys go check out their houses..."

She trailed off with a shrug, prompting the Joker to sling an arm around her back and pull her closer.

" _Boom?"_  He suggested, his voice low as he offered her a private smile that made his eyes crinkle up at the corners, the black warpaint bleeding into the white like a spider's web.

"Boom," Harley agreed, trying to tamp down the beaming grin threatening to split her face in half. Then she thought a few more steps ahead, and the corners of her mouth turned down melodramatically. "But I have to be the one to lose him," she said, tugging on his tie.

"Uh... _why?"_  the Joker lifted a quizzical eyebrow, and Harley let her bottom lip jut out in an exaggerated pout as she widened her eyes innocently.

"Cause I'm just your dumb blonde girlfriend," she said, batting her eyelashes at him. "I'm nowhere  _near_  as dangerous as you."

"Oh-ho- _ho_ ," the Joker purred, looking delighted as his arm tightened around her. "They are makin' a  _big_  mistake if they think that."

Harley grinned lazily as she stretched up to kiss him.

* * *

The mood was incredibly tense on the set of GCN's lunchtime news program. Vicki sat at a table between the Gothamite's Steve Lombard, and GCN's resident millennial blogger, Arturo Rodriguez, numbly watching a make up artist touch up Mike Engel's face.

They were there to discuss the Mayor's kidnapping at the hands of the Joker and Harley Quinn. Vicki felt like there had been a guillotine hanging over her neck ever since news broke the night before, and the blade felt closer and closer each time she thought back to the last thing she'd said to Harley. _"Thanks for this, Harley."_

Thanks for this, Harley. Thanks for allowing me to boost my career with your propaganda.

Harley always had an angle, and there was no doubt a nefarious reason she had directed Vicki to Anna Ramirez. There was a  _reason_  she wanted this story out there, but Vicki had been too blinded by ambition to realize that maybe this time, Harley wasn't just feeding her a story as part of a power game with her equally evil enemies. Perhaps  _this_ _time,_  it might affect _normal_  people.

One thing was inevitable, and Vicki knew it as well as everyone else in Gotham. The Mayor's kidnapping was just the beginning. Another shoe was about to drop, and the dread coiling in Vicki's intestines told her it would land just as the guillotine fell on her neck.

The show's producer counted them in—three, two, one—before the camera lights blinked on, dots of red in a sea of black. Vicki listened to Mike Engel welcome their viewers and give a quick rundown of what they knew about the Mayor's kidnapping. Then he turned to Lombard, asking about his op-ed asserting that with the Canary's appearance in Gotham, she had all but guaranteed the return of the Joker, this time accompanied by Harley Quinn.

"The Joker always goes after the Batman," Lombard insisted. "He's obsessed with him. It's what _motivates_  him."

"Do you really think if the Batman disappeared, the Joker would stop?" Engel frowned.

"It happened before," Lombard argued. "Then the Batman returns, supposedly to stop the drug war, and look where we are!"

Engel turned to Vicki, and the camera facing her blinked on, the screens covering the back wall showing multiple shots of her exhausted face.

"I think we need to consider that there's more going on behind the scenes," Vicki said slowly, thinking about Harley in her underwear two days before, having obviously just spent some  _personal_  time with the Joker in their hotel room. It was horrifying to realize just how intimately acquainted Vicki was with them. "That there's more to this story than we know," she added weakly.

"You mean like the revelations about Harvey Dent?" Arturo jumped in, more interested in a salacious tale about Gotham's DA than speculation over the Joker's motivations. "That maybe the Batman had a good reason to kill Dent?"

"Context matters," Vicki said, knowing it sounded pathetic.

"Context?" Lombard spat incredulously. "Yesterday you basically accused Harvey Dent of being a cop killer, and Commissioner Gordon of covering it up. And today you're saying Gordon had a good reason?"

Vicki was saved from having to reply when a series of high pitched beeps echoed around the room as all of the cameras blinked off, and the screens fuzzed to static. The producers and camera operators looked around at each other, bewildered, while Mike Engel paled dramatically, already knowing what was coming.

The static on the screens was replaced with a shot of a man standing at a podium in front of an American flag, a stuffed bald-eagle to his right. It was Mayor Garcia, and his face had been painted like Harley Quinn's.

"Oh my God," someone whispered among the hush that fell over the studio.

The dread coiling in Vicki's stomach began to grow as she watched the Mayor prepare to speak, making the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stick up.

"Ladies and gentlemen, my fellow citizens of Gotham," the Mayor said, looking strained beneath a heavy layer of greasepaint. "I have... sad news for you today. By now, you will have heard the reporting about Harvey Dent. I'm here to tell you that you still haven't been told the whole story. That in his last days, Harvey Dent was not Gotham's hero, but a serial killer... a villain named...  _Two-Face."_

Lombard spun around to stare at Vicki incredulously, her claim that there was more to the story coming to life before their very eyes.

"You all deserve to know the truth," the Mayor continued stiffly. "Commissioner Gordon must come forward and explain why he lied to us. If Commissioner Gordon does not..."

The Mayor stopped abruptly, his blackened eyes closing until a nasal voice hummed impatiently. That  _hum_  made the studio collectively gasp, reminding them this was all just a show, reminding Vicki she had voluntarily taken part in this.

Mayor Garcia took a deep breath, facing the camera again.

"If Commissioner Gordon does not come forward in twenty minutes to explain himself, four Gotham elementary schools will be destroyed. I can only hope this will motivate the Commissioner to do the right thing."

"Did he just say blow up  _schools?"_ someone gasped as the screen cut to black.

Vicki sank into herself, wishing she could disappear as she listened to the chorus of panicked voices growing hysterical around her. She could feel Lombard glaring at her, blaming her for her role in this, making her feel like the guillotine was edging closer and closer. But it wasn't until twenty minutes later when Commissioner Gordon did not come forward, and four explosions rocked the city that the blade finally dropped.

* * *

By the Joker's calculations, it had been an exceptionally productive day.

After Harley shared her vision of misdirection and violence to get the Mayor back into Gordon's hands, they'd started plotting what would need to happen next, then knocked out the Mayor to get a little privacy.

There wasn't time for anything _grown up_  in that private time, not when they were both running on a handful of hours of sleep and had a lot of work to get started on. So, with the Mayor passed out in his wheelchair, the Joker threw his coat down on the floor so he and Harley could get some shut-eye.

He'd braced his arm behind his head while she nestled into his side, insisting they needed three hours so they could each complete two REM cycles. He'd chuckled and agreed, waiting until she started snoring her head off before he shut his eyes and fell asleep. Three hours later, his eyes opened, and Harley was still snoring away, her head on his chest and her arm wrapped around him possessively.

There had been a change in her since she'd said goodbye to Sofia. It wasn't as jarring as a light switch being flipped, but it was never that way with her. She just melted from one incarnation of herself into another, always the same stubborn, mean, fearless person the Joker met at Arkham, but with an ever-evolving mission statement. It was always the mission that got her in trouble because she stuck to the script so decisively. That was the big change this time—she let the concept of a  _script_  go completely.

Instead of fighting against the current, or fighting against  _herself,_  she was floating blissfully through the storm.

Mmm...  _finally_.

Dressed down in civilian clothes—he in inconspicuous black jeans and a tee-shirt, and Harley in a fetching black sundress and sandals, costumes to distract from who they really were—they grabbed some shwarma from a food truck Uptown then snuck up to the top of the GCN Radio Building where they could take in the show from a good height.

They watched the Mayor's press conference on an encrypted phone as they ate, then watched from twenty stories up as school buses and police cruisers flooded the streets below. Predictably, Gordon stayed quiet, and twenty minutes later, four roaring fireballs bloomed to life above the schools. Harley was leaning against him, her back against his chest, his arm looped around her shoulders, holding her against him. She twisted around to offer him a saccharine smile as flames licked at Gotham's iconic skyline behind her, looking happier than the Joker had ever seen her.

The urge to sneak a hand under that little black sundress while they watched the first wave of chaos crash over the city was tempting, but then her phone was ringing —Bullock with an update—and they had plenty of work to get done, anyway. The Joker settled for squeezing her waist and rubbing his nose against the side of her neck, breathing in the sweet, rotten smell of her while she went limp in his arms and sighed. But there were too many plates spinning for that right now, too much work to do, and there would be plenty of time later.

They continued to lay threads to later be pulled as they prepared for that evening. Bullock continued to text a running commentary to Harley, keeping them abreast of Gordon's movements, which largely consisted of barricading himself in his office with some 'good cops' called Essen and Akins, and Deputy Mayor Krol.

The Joker had to hand it to Harley. She had  _devoured_  Bullock. He'd seen her employ a combination of affection, cruelty, and disinterest in how she treated him. Scaring him one minute, protecting him the next, and now he was either brainwashed or in love with her. It was hard to say which, but he was utterly hers; she had eaten his  _soul_.

By sundown, Krol was on the steps of City Hall giving a televised speech about how the GCPD would not negotiate with terrorists.

They watched Krol's speech from Texas Joe's Body Shop, where they could get cheap medical supplies to discretely  _insert_  Serge's tiny explosive into the Mayor. He was currently laying facedown on a workbench in the middle of the garage, unconscious and undignified as Harley argued with Texas Joe and a crooked doctor called the Pill Man who would be doing the  _inserting_. Harley insisted it had to be done correctly or someone might notice, and it would all be for naught.

The Joker glanced away from the old TV set playing the tail end of the Deputy Mayor's speech, his eyes searching out Harley across the garage. He was still wearing jeans and a tee-shirt, understated and inconspicuous, while Harley was painted and suited, her blonde hair hanging in messy tangles down her back. Her role that evening was more front and center, while he was on getaway driver duty again. She was negotiating with the Pill Man over his services, her blackened eyes narrowed, and her red mouth pursed unhappily as she allowed him to pitch her a higher figure for  _inserting_  a bomb into the Mayor's neck.

"Your girl don't take shit from no on, eh?" Sergey smirked, sidling up to the Joker, where he was leaning against a workbench stacked with medical supplies and knock-off Gucci hats.

"My _girl_ , huh?" the Joker hummed, accepting the bottle of vodka Sergey passed him and taking a quick swig, but passing on the subsequent line of coke offered. Serge had been on the stuff all day to keep him going, but the Joker preferred coffee and exhaustion, though he liked the optics of a coke-sniffing pyromaniac trying to keep up with him and Harley. It made him laugh under his breath as he passed the vodka back to the Russian.

"She's not your girl?" Sergey had a sly look on his face, and the Joker's eyes drifted back across the room to Harley.

She'd flipped from sneering to sweet, endearing herself to the Pill Man, probably reassuring him that she knew he was talented enough to do what she wanted. It was obviously working.

"My  _girl_ ," the Joker tried out the label again, tasting its meaning.

People were so  _obsessed_  with labels. They needed them to understand the world. The Mayor called Harley his girlfriend, a blatant dig to trivialize the whole...  _experience_  of being with her. 'Being with her,' meaning being in her presence, working with her, sleeping next to her, laughing with her, eating with her, fucking her, plotting  _chaos_ with her. These objective facts fulfilled Marty's suggestion of  _'togetherness,'_  which, as romantic and institutional as it sounded, was the reality of what was happening. Label number one.

The Joker had countered the accusation of 'girlfriend' with 'partner' because it was more accurate. Partners in all of the above. It suggested...  _symmetry._

Label number  _two._

Then there was this phrase the boys used for her—his  _girl_. It was typical wiseguy jargon, used for enforcer girlfriends or mob boss mistresses. Women relegated to supporting roles. It was old school, implying ownership. Harley would  _never_  be owned or controlled, and yet the contrarian in the Joker found something tantalizing in such a label, precisely because it was so ill-suited to her.

Label number three.

 _Civilians_  with their prized moral mysticism labeled Harley and the Joker terrorists and psychopaths.  _Villains._  They needed labels for their sanity; it was why they got so confused, so chaotic when the truth of the world was exposed to them. That was the beauty of their work. The beauty of Harvey Dent and Jim Gordon and the Batman and Harley Quinn. Blurred lines of truth and lies, good and evil, monsters and heroes, and the violence each of them used in their own ways to control their little worlds.

Except for Harley. Her world wasn't small; the world was  _wide_  open to her.

The world was  _hers_ if she wanted it.

The Deputy Mayor's press conference ended, and the Joker drifted across the body shop to Harley's side, where she was watching the Pill Man work on the Mayor while Texas Joe assisted. It had been almost two days since they'd last had a chance to roll around naked together, and these thoughts of labels and Harley were making the Joker's hands twitch to push her up against something to make her squirm.

He settled on a different impulse, grabbing her arm and tugging her close, then lifting a hand to her throat, letting his fingers curl around her slender neck like she'd done to him a few nights earlier at the safe house. It was possessive, a little kinky, and when she looked up at him, her eyes hooded beneath the black greasepaint, her pulse leaping against his thumb, he knew they were on the same page again. This possessive posturing could easily be reversed, with his heartbeat throbbing against her thumb as she claimed him for hers.

Symmetry.

Terrorist. Girlfriend. Psychopath. Partner. Villain.  _My girl._

Those were the labels people needed to understand them. Harley and the Joker had no use for labels, but as she gazed up him at him, a smirk blossoming on her red lips, the Joker could see what she was thinking, as clear as day.

_Lean into it._

That's funny. He was thinking the same thing.

* * *

They released the teachers' names to the media just before midnight. Bonnie Hunter, Justin Sprake, Aditya Ramesh, and Catherine Ellis. Four teachers, one from each of the schools that had been destroyed earlier that day. All young, single, and missing from work for two days. Kidnapped by the Joker and Harley Quinn's goons, and no doubt central to the next phase of their plan. Were they still alive? Could they be used as bargaining chips to get Gordon to talk? Could they already be dead, as punishment or a warning or a  _sign_  of what came next?

Gordon burst out onto the roof if the MCU, looking around frantically.

"We've got SWAT teams on the way," he announced to the darkness, waiting for one of them to step forward.

Then he spotted the Canary, lingering half in the shadow, and once he saw her, it was easy to see the Batman looming beside her.

"We'll take Ellis and Ramesh, you take Hunter and Sprake," the Batman grunted, glancing at his partner, who checked her forearm when something drew her attention to it.

"What is it?" Gordon demanded, knowing he sounded desperate.

"Harley's in Midtown," the Canary announced, her voice a low hiss. "Near Wayne Tower."

Gordon watched them exchange a look before the Canary melted back into the shadows while the Batman turned to Gordon.

"Get your men to Hunter and Sprake's buildings," he said gruffly. "See what you can find. We can end this tonight."

* * *

It was nearing midnight when Harley climbed out of the cherry red Lamborghini they'd stolen from the parking garage beneath Wayne Tower. The walkie talkie in her hand squawked to let her know everyone was in position as she peered up at a CCTV camera. She shook her hair out and turned her painted face up to the camera, making it easy for the Batman's facial recognition tech to pick her up. It was dark out, the streetlights providing minimal illumination, but the Joker and Lonnie estimated the chances were slim to none that the Batman wasn't employing some morally-dubious technology to hunt them down.

Behind Harley, there was a gentle pounding from the Lamborghini's trunk, a drugged but conscious Mayor Garcia weakly fighting for freedom. Harley rolled her shoulders back, ignoring the Mayor as she waited for the walkie to let her know it was time to start the show. The idea of drawing out the Batman still made her uneasy, but her opinion on killing him was evolving. The Joker saw him as a foil, a contrasting reflection of himself. Harley saw the Batman as a useful tool to outmaneuver. A  _challenge._

The walkie squawked again as one of their henchmen informed her the Tumbler had been spotted four blocks north, just on the cusp of Uptown and heading her way.

Harley spun away from the camera, her pulse picking up as she slid behind the wheel of the Lamborghini and tossed the walkie into the passenger seat. She thumbed on the ignition button, letting the engine roar to life as her eyes darted to the rearview mirror. When the Tumbler rolled into view a block behind her, she sucked in a breath and released the clutch, shifting into first gear as she stomped down on the gas, and the sportscar took off down the street with a squeal.

Her gaze flickered between the Lamborghini's speedometer and the rearview mirror, watching the Tumbler edge closer as she sped south through Midtown, shooting past Wayne Tower and the Crowne Building. She upshifted to second, then third, the engine revving as the speedometer twitched past one-hundred-ten, edging towards one-twenty. The Tumbler was gaining on her, which was why they'd stolen something fast enough to outpace it. Something it could  _chase._

The walkie squawked again, Sly's voice informing her he was ready when she was. Then behind her, there was a blast as the Tumbler's driver ignited its thruster, propelling the tank forward until it clipped the Lamborghini's back bumper. Harley upshifted again, her foot pressing the accelerator firmly to the floor as the speedometer reached one-forty, one-forty-five, one-fifty...

There was an explosion that made Harley's heart leap, even as she braced herself for it. Sly was in one of the buildings to her right, armed with a rocket launcher. He hit the Tumbler, sending it careening away and rolling onto its side. Harley wrapped her hands around the wheel, steeling herself as she slammed her foot down on the brake, throwing the Lamborghini into a tailspin. The car spun around and around and around, the centrifugal force pressing Harley back into her seat until it finally came skidding to a stop, rocking on its wheels.

She exhaled a shaky breath and thumbed the button to open the trunk, giving the Mayor a chance to make his presence known to their pursuers. Then she grabbed her gun off the seat and kicked open the door, ready to race across the street to the alley where the Joker was waiting for her with their getaway car, an unflashy Toyota.

If Harley was honest with herself—and she was trying to be more and more these days—she didn't really think it would be that easy. In fact, she had hoped it wouldn't be, but she still growled in frustration when that fucking  _whirring_  started up, and the Batpod came speeding up the street with the Canary tucked neatly behind its overly-large front wheel.

Harley slowed to a stop in the middle of the street, pursing her lips as she raised her gun and let off a few lazy rounds that ricocheted off the asphalt. Her eyes narrowed as the Canary drew closer, and she held down the trigger, letting round after round  _ping!_  off the front of the Batpod until a shot finally landed. There was a  _BANG_  as the Batpod's front tire exploded, throwing the whole vehicle back and tossing the Canary to the pavement.

Harley's lips curled into a satisfied smirk as she turned to sprint for the alley again, her desire to get back to the safehouse and watch the next phase play out overpowering her desire to kill the Batman's irritating sidekick. There would be a more opportune moment to take the Canary off the chessboard, and  _really_  make it count.

But just as Harley reached the mouth of the alley, the Batman swooped down in front of her, blocking her path. Harley reared back as he swung at her, making her scowl as she tried to get her gun between them. He kicked her hand, sending the gun flying, but before Harley could dive for it, he grabbed a fistful of her jacket and swung her around, slamming her up against the wall of the alley.

"Where are the teachers!" the Batman roared, using his grip on Harley's jacket to haul her up off her feet. "Why did you release their names!"

"Guess you'll have to wait and see," Harley sneered, pulling her fist back to jab him where his armor shifted at his neck, a little trick Dinah taught her.

But before she could hit him, the Batman caught her arm and wrenched it out to the side, slamming her wrist against the corner of the building.

Something in Harley's wrist  _snapped,_  making her eyes cross as pain engulfed her. She released a strangled, high-pitched, intentionally-womanly cry that startled the Batman enough to make him release her and take a full step back. An engine roared to life in the alley behind him as a pair of headlights snapped on, and the Batman looked around just in time to see the Toyota shooting toward him.

Harley pressed herself back against the alley wall, clutching her wrist to her chest as the Toyota crashed into the Batman, sending him flying up on the hood. The car squealed to a stop a few short feet from the Lamborghini—which the Mayor was currently attempting to climb out of—and the Batman was hurled to the concrete.

"Fuck," Harley hissed, staggering out of the alley as the Toyota reversed to a screeching stop beside her, and the passenger door flew open.

" _That_  doesn't look good," the Joker drawled, sounding amused as Harley fell into the passenger seat with a scowl.

"He broke my fucking wrist," she complained, which only made the Joker chuckle unsympathetically as he threw the car into drive and took off down the street.

Harley turned to look out the back window, watching the Lamborghini get smaller behind them as she palmed her rapidly swelling wrist. It  _still_  felt too easy, and she turned to the Joker to tell him so when something landed on the roof above them with a dull  _thump_ , drawing their attention up before they exchanged a look.

"Uh oh..." the Joker hummed, his eyes glittering as he shot Harley a smirk. "There's a little  _bird_  in our midst."

He spun the wheel hard to the left and then to the right, making the car swerve wildly while Harley struggled to open the glove-box one-handed. She kept her bad wrist tight to her chest as she retrieved a revolver and pulled back the hammer, then turned to watch the Canary's booted legs swing back and forth across the back windscreen. Harley fired six shots into the ceiling in rapid succession, emptying the chamber but failing to dislodge the mini-vigilante.

"Mmm, she wants to  _play_ ," the Joker muttered to himself, his eyes darting between the road and the rearview mirror before he slung them around a corner, making the Toyota fishtail as they started speeding east toward the Downtown Bridge.

Harley huffed impatiently and rolled down her window, deciding something face to face was required. She tossed the empty revolver aside before she clambered out the window, looping the seatbelt around her left arm a few times to anchor her as she pulled herself out into the rushing wind.

The Canary was clinging to the roof of the car with the help of two flat, seemingly magnetized metal circles attached to her gloves. Her small mouth was pursed in concentration, but the rest of her face was obscured by a black cowl. Her whole suit appeared to have been upgraded since Harley saw her the night Pam left. Instead of leggings and a bulletproof vest, she now had fullfledged Batman-grade body armor. How  _nice_  that the Batman found himself a pet project.

Harley's hair whipped around her face as she shoved her arm back in the car and held out her hand expectantly. The Joker deposited a loaded Glock in her palm, and the Canary's head lifted just as Harley took aim at her. But before she could pull the trigger, there was a zip of blue electricity beneath one of the metallic plates keeping the Canary on the roof. It disconnected from the car just as they swerved onto the Downtown Bridge, and Harley failed to move fast enough when the Canary swiped at her, knocking the gun out of her hand and throwing her off balance.

Harley fell backward, the seatbelt wrapped around her arm pulling tight as she swung dangerously far back, nearly toppling out of the car completely until the Joker grabbed her ankle and yanked her back.

Her heart pounding frantically, Harley pulled herself up again and thrust her arm back into the car. This time, instead of a gun, the Joker laid something pole-shaped in her hand, and when Harley pulled her arm back to see what it was, she nearly squealed with delight; the cattle prod Lonnie had given them.

Harley's face split into a grin as she activated the cattle prod and thrust it forward like a spear, stabbing the Canary in the ribs. Her body started to convulse under the current of electricity, and the magnetized plates on her gloves came free from the roof one by one. Then she rolled to the side and slipped off the roof, her limp body disappearing down the side of the car.

Harley craned her head back to see the Canary laying motionless in the middle of the bridge, and she released a relieved sigh before slipping back into the car.

"Ya get her?" the Joker asked mildly as they pulled off the bridge into Gotham's Eastside.

"Yeah," Harley panted, flopping back against the seat as she unwrapped her arm from the seatbelt and examined her wrist again.

The Joker hummed happily and dropped a hand on Harley's leg just above her knee, giving her a squeeze.

Harley's heart was thundering in her chest as adrenaline pumped through her blood. She closed her eyes and released a long breath, trying to get her pulse to slow down by focusing on the Joker's fingers drumming against the inside of her thigh. She could feel the nervous energy rolling off him like it was passing from his body into hers, and though it should have made her antsier, she found it strangely soothing. He was like a constant hum, vibrating with his unique brand of life right beside her.

* * *

Dinah pushed herself up onto her elbow, breathing hard through her nose as she examined her arm, which was visibly dislocated from her shoulder despite her suit. She held her arm close to her chest as she pulled herself to her feet and looked around the dark bridge, police sirens wailing in the distance.

Harley was gone.

Dinah exhaled a frustrated breath through her teeth and started limping back to the main island of Gotham, reaching the end of the bridge just as Bruce rolled up in the Tumbler.

"Where's the Mayor?" Dinah demanded, staggering up to him.

"There's an ambulance on the way," Bruce said, looking her over quickly.

"Something isn't right," Dinah huffed, grabbing her elbow and gritting her teeth as she tried to shove her arm back into the socket. "That was way too easy. Something's wrong..."

"You're hurt," Bruce observed, watching her wince and hiss as she managed to get her arm back in place.

"Will you shut up and listen to me?" Dinah insisted, rolling her shoulder back, pushing past the pain. "They were trying to distract us, can't you see that?"

Bruce looked away from her, collecting himself over some inner struggle, and when he turned back to her, the set of his jaw was resolute.

"You're right," he agreed gruffly. "We have to get to those teachers' houses. Something isn't right."

He tossed Dinah the keys to the Tumbler and headed for a motorcycle parked on the side of the road.

"You take Ellis," Dinah snapped, catching the keys as Bruce kicked his leg over the motorcycle, the bike roaring to life beneath him. "I'll take Ramesh," she added, ducking into the Tumbler.

* * *

Harley and the Joker ditched the Toyota a few blocks from their safe house in Chinatown and walked the rest of the way. Harley kept her painted face down while the Joker looped a lanky arm over her shoulders, making them look like a drunk couple out too late in the wrong part of town. They slowed to a stop outside a Chinese restaurant with newspapers and menus covering its windows, and the Joker produced a small brass key to unlock the gated front door, letting them into the narrow, mildewy hallway.

As she chased the Joker up the rickety staircase to the small studio apartment, Harley thought back to the night he'd first taken her there, not quite a year earlier. She remembered being terrified as they fled the Batman, the idea that he could be coming for  _her_  impossible to wrap her head around at the time. Then the Joker had pulled her out of that wrecked van instead of leaving her there to be arrested, and he'd taken her to his safe house under the guise of her 'knowing too much' to be let go. The truth, it turned out, had been more like he hadn't been  _ready_  to give her up yet. Not to Gordon and the Batman that night, and not in general over the days and weeks that followed.

The Joker kicked open the safe house's front door with all the enthusiasm of a giddy psychopath desperate to watch his evil plan unfold. They'd stocked the place with necessities earlier that day in preparation—Harley's organized influence on the job—so while the Joker fell on the couch, kicked off his shoes, and booted up a laptop, Harley hunted down Texas Joe's medical kit.

She popped a couple of extra-strength Tylenol instead of one of the heavy-duty pain killers, then shrugged out of her jacket to examine her left wrist, which had swollen up over twice its natural size. She muttered unhappily about self-righteous  _vigilantes_  as she pulled a spool of bandages from the medical kit, hoping it would be good enough.

_"This is Arturo Rodriguez, live on the street tonight in Gotham! The Joker and Harley Quinn have released the names of four hostages, and we're here with GCPD SWAT teams as they investigate."_

Harley looked up to see the Joker hunched over the laptop, his dark eyes glued to a live stream of Arturo Rodriguez with a camera crew following the GCPD as they surrounded Bonnie Hunter's apartment building.

The Joker looked at Harley, one eyebrow raised.

"These  _people,"_  he observed drolly, gesturing for Harley to sit on the couch with him.

 _"We're outside Gotham Elementary teacher Bonnie Hunter's home,"_  Arturo continued on the live stream, explaining the situation as Harley handed the Joker the roll of bandages and offered her arm up. He wrapped her wrist tight as they listened to Arturo speak to some cops to get a read on the situation. Gordon's men were going in to hunt for clues, but so far, no one had any leads on the terrorists' whereabouts, although reports were coming in that the Batman and Canary had saved Mayor Garcia from almost certain death.

Harley tried to flex her fingers as she watched the scene unfold on the laptop, where it sat on the floor. Arturo's cameraman was zooming in on the backs of the SWAT team as they entered Bonnie's building.

Any minute now...

Harley turned her attention to the Joker, her pulse suddenly leaping in her throat just like it had been when they'd been at the top of the Gotham Radio Tower earlier that day, waiting for the schools to blow up. The Joker cocked his head to the side and squinted at her out of one eye, his foot bouncing restlessly against the floor, and Harley found herself holding her breath as they waited for the timed charges to detonate...

The laptop speakers fuzzed and screeched as the bombs in Bonnie's building exploded. It wasn't just on the laptop, Harley could hear them in real-time out the window. Two townhouses and two apartment blocks were being reduced to rubble with no advanced warning on just the other side of the river. There would be families in those buildings— children and mothers and old people. Gordon's SWAT teams were in those buildings, trying to  _save_ the city.

Harley threw her arms around the Joker's neck and kissed him as screaming and gunfire echoed from the laptop's tinny speakers. He kissed her back eagerly, his hand slipping into her hair as they fell back against the stiff couch cushions.

 _"I'm now getting word that three other buildings have been destroyed across Downtown Gotham!"_  Arturo shouted into his mic over the screaming _. "All belonging to the teachers allegedly kidnapped by the Joker and Harley Quinn! Early estimates of the death toll are vague..."_

The Joker planted a knee between Harley's legs and pulled away from her to wrestle off his jacket while Harley attempted to get his belt undone with one hand, huffing impatiently. He giggled and folded forward over her, his mouth connecting with her throat as he undid the button and zip on his jeans then tugged her ugly hot pink camisole out of her pants so he could slide his hands beneath it. His mouth moved from her neck down her chest, his teeth scraping over her nipple through the gauzy fabric, making Harley's body lurch up against his.

On the laptop, there was a crash as the building beside Bonnie's collapsed, and Arturo fought to be heard over the chaos.

At Harley's urging, the Joker shifted to the side to help her kick off her suit trousers. She used her feet to nudge his jeans down far enough to free him as he pitched forward to kiss her again, one of his hands roaming over her torso as the other slid between her legs to touch her, and she felt him hum smugly against her lips when he felt how excited she was.

"Shut up," Harley laughed, until he pushed a finger inside her, making her whine, "Oh  _God_ , hurry up."

He pulled his hand away and wiped his fingers on Harley's stomach, sending a swell of arousal racing through her. Then he sat back on his heels and grabbed her hips, hauling her up to him so their bodies were aligned before he sank into her. Harley coughed out a groan as her head fell back against the arm of the sofa. There was rarely anything _gentle_ about their couplings, even when they went slow and took their time, but this felt especially urgent after going two days without and excitement of the day.

The Joker fell forward over Harley, catching himself on the arm of the sofa, and burying his face in her neck as their hips snapped together. Harley grabbed handfuls of his hair and held him close, pain shooting through her wrist as she raked her nails over his scalp. But she didn't care, the pleasure curling through her pelvis blocked it out, making her head swim and her heart pound as she panted the letter that stood for his name. The letter that stood for his real name too, but even though she knew it now, he would always be the Joker to Harley.

Their heavy breathing mixed together with the sounds of chaos still fuzzing from the laptop, turning to white noise as Harley felt her body begin to climax. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and a weak whine slipped past of her lips as an orgasm pulsed through her, rolling like a tidal wave that wouldn't stop crashing. She felt the Joker's mouth on her jaw as he released a more muted but breathless sound and dug his fingers into her waist.

 _"This leaves the question of where these four teachers are now, and what the Joker and Harley Quinn plan to do with them!"_  Arturo was babbling as they caught their breath together.

"Shit," Harley huffed quietly, wiping her hand over her forehead, leaving a smear of white paint on her knuckles. "I needed that."

"Mmm," the Joker chuckled, lifting his head to raise an amused eyebrow at her. He had white paint smudged on his cheek and his nose from where his natural face had been pressed against Harley's painted one, his lips smeared red. "My  _girl,_ " he mused, narrowing his eyes at her.

He didn't have to say anything else. Harley knew this was his way of marveling at how well-suited they were for each other, and how easy it was.

She closed her eyes and giggled deliriously.

* * *

Bruce wasn't great at letting people in. Not as a child after his parents died, not as a young man filled with vengeance, and not as the dark knight and all the sacrifices that entailed.

Thus far, inviting Dinah in had been an incredibly uncomfortable experience, but it seemed to be working, both of them focused on the task at hand: stopping the Joker and Harley Quinn. How to have a working relationship with a teenage girl who was also living with him and Alfred was still something Bruce was trying to wrap his head around, much to Alfred's amusement. Dinah was a serious, closed-off young woman who was far too cynical for someone so young. She made Bruce feel like an optimist by comparison.

There would be time later to figure out the personal dynamics of this partnership, and whether Bruce would be playing mentor or big brother or simply watchful advisor. Right now, they needed to stop a pair of psychotic clowns from blowing the city half-way to hell.

They weren't doing a great job so far. Dinah had been right about how dangerous the Joker would be with Harley at his side.

After losing them on the bridge, Bruce got word to Gordon in time for him to evacuate Sprake's townhouse, while Bruce and Dinah each did their best to clear out the apartment buildings Ellis and Ramesh lived in.

Thirty people. They saved thirty people from being blown up in their own homes without warning.

But people were still dead. Gordon lost ten men when Bonnie Hunter's building was destroyed, along with all of the building's inhabitants.

Thirty people, Bruce continued to remind himself. Thirty people were still alive.

He and Dinah now stood in a private room at Gotham City Hospital, waiting for Mayor Garcia beneath the florescent lights. With dawn approaching and no new leads to speak of, they needed to have a quiet word with the Mayor to find out what happened to him.

"Gordon's going to tell people about Dent, isn't he," Dinah said suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence. "Even though it won't stop them."

Bruce sighed through his nose as he tried to think of a reasonable response. He knew Gordon, his co-conspirator, had a very different take on the situation they found themselves in. Harvey had kidnapped his family and held a gun to his son's head. Gordon felt like he was covering for a serial killer, while Bruce believed they were protecting the good parts of Harvey's legacy. Not just for Harvey's sake, but for Gotham's too. Maybe, subconsciously, he was holding out for Rachel's memory, but would Rachel have wanted them to cover up Harvey's crimes?

He had been Two-Face when he died, and Bruce shuddered to think what Two-Face would have been capable of had he survived.

"Gordon knows it won't stop them," Bruce said gruffly. "He thinks we made a mistake."

"I don't," Dinah replied quickly, looking up at him, catching his eye. "But it doesn't matter," she insisted. "It's not your job to care what people think. All you can do is your best and hope it's enough."

Bruce held her gaze solemnly, wondering what it was about this moment that Dinah chose it to open up to him, even just a fraction, when the hospital room door flew open. Gordon marched in with Sergeant Essen and Lieutenant Akins on his heels, all of them outfitted in GCPD windbreakers.

"You gotta lot of nerve coming in here," Akins snapped, storming forward with his eyes narrowed. He was your typical overweight cop, with a big belly from too many doughnuts and a blonde crew-cut suggesting an affinity for military-style order. Akins was not a fan of the Batman's, not before the Joker, not after the Joker, and not since the truth about Harvey started coming out.

"They saved the Mayor, didn't they?" Essen pointed out, planting her fists on her hips. "Stop pretending we don't need them, Mike."

"Need them?" Atkins sneered, his watery eyes darting between Dinah and Bruce. "These two are the reason we have the Joker and Harley Quinn in the first place! They're the reason the GCPD's credibility is shot straight to hell!"

"That's enough!" Gordon spat, looking exhausted. "None of that matters now. If we want to stop this rampage, we need their help."

The hospital room's door swung open again, and the room fell quiet as the Mayor was wheeled in by a nurse, while an assistant carrying a pair of shoes and a trenchcoat squeezed in behind them. The Mayor was sporting a bruise on his forehead and deep bags under his eyes, but otherwise looked in good health even wearing pale blue hospital scrubs.

"I suppose this is your Seal team, Gordon," the Mayor observed bitterly, waving off the nurse as he stood unsteadily and snatched the shoes away from his assistant.

"Mr Mayor," Gordon started uneasily. "They're manipulating public opinion. This isn't—"

"I'm pretty sure public opinion is against a pair of terrorists blowing up eight buildings in less than twelve hours," the Mayor snapped, lowering himself into an armchair in the corner and pulling on a pair of socks. "You're the ones who gave the clowns ammunition," he continued, shoving his feet into the shoes and standing again, more steadily this time.

"They'll use anything as ammunition to turn us against one another," Dinah hissed, drawing the Mayor's attention. "We can't fight each other. We have to be united against them."

"Remind me who she is?" the Mayor shot the Batman a skeptical look. "Your intern?"

"My partner," Bruce growled back.

"She better be as useful a partner to you as Harley Quinn is to the Joker," the Mayor spat, his face spasming like he was reliving some awful memory.

"Mayor Garcia," Essen stepped in. "It's essential you tell us anything you heard or saw while you were with them. Anything that stood out— sounds, smells, things they said..."

"You want to know what stood out?" the Mayor bristled, grabbing his trench coat off the bed and shrugging it on over the hospital scrubs. "She's just as crazy as he is!" He yanked on the jacket's lapels to straighten them. "She's, she's..." he kept tugging on his lapels, looking rattled as he searched for the right words. "I don't know  _what_  she is, but those two were  _made_  for each other."

"What does that mean?" Bruce frowned.

"I  _mean_  they were all over each other," the Mayor bit out, his nostrils flaring. "They couldn't keep their hands off each other! It was like... like..."

"Like no one else exists but them," Dinah filled in grimly. "Everyone else is disposable," she continued, looking around the group.

"Gordon, you need to clean this mess up," the Mayor snapped, ignoring Dinah in favor of glaring at the police commissioner. "I'm giving a press conference in two hours on the steps of City Hall. You need to give a statement explaining  _all_  of this."

"Sir, in your condition..." the nurse, who had been watching from the doorway, finally jumped in. "You need to rest."

"No, we need to show strength," the Mayor shook his head. "We can't let them prove we'll crumble under pressure. The public needs to be reassured that we're honest people, that this was an isolated event, not the whole police force or City Hall. I'm sorry, Gordon, you've brought this upon yourself."

Gordon nodded slowly, then looked at Essen, who grabbed his hand in solidarity.

Bruce and Dinah exchanged a look, both of them noticing this overtly- _personal_  gesture of support.

"And as for you two," the Mayor looked between Bruce and Dinah, his face souring again. "Find them if you can, and try not to make this any worse than it already is." He diverted his attention to Gordon. "Have a statement ready within the hour," he bit out before turning on his heel and stomping out of the room with his assistant and the nurse following close behind.

"Mayor Garcia, hold up!" Akins called out, taking off after them, leaving the hospital room submerged in awkward silence.

"It's time," Gordon said at length, sounding exhausted and demoralized, but resolute. "It's time for people to know the truth about Harvey," he added, meeting Bruce's eye across the room.

Once Gordon and Essen left, and they were alone again, Dinah placed her hand on Bruce's arm. It was a show of support, Bruce realized, and maybe a personal olive branch too, and he shot her a grateful look.

"Come on," she said softly, her voice girlish once more. "The sun's coming up."

Bruce nodded in silent agreement.

* * *

The street outside City Hall was flooded with people, a lot of them young and pissed off, some of them middle-aged and pissed off. These were brave people who took to the streets despite the danger currently looming over Gotham; they were furious and confused, and they wanted answers, as they repeatedly told the reporters skirting amongst them. The Mayor was supposed to give a speech soon, one that would hopefully explain why all of this was happening...  _again._

Harley and the Joker wore costumes to help them blend in among this sea of angry, bewildered, frightened people. Harley in a sundress and strappy sandals, the Joker in black jeans and a tee shirt, the dark sunglasses covering their eyes granting them more anonymity than one would think possible. They were just a young couple curious about what the Mayor had to say about the current crisis. No one would even think to look twice.

The Joker looped a lanky arm over Harley's shoulders as they waited for the Mayor to show up on the steps of City Hall. Harley leaned against him, the back of her head resting on his shoulder as she watched Gordon and the Deputy Mayor argue. She narrowed her eyes at Deputy Mayor Krol—soon to be  _Mayor_  Krol—wondering what the story was there. He, like the rest of Gotham, was obviously out of his depth trying to understand the Harvey Dent drama that had been unfolding. And fear had a way of making animals desperate for known things.

The Joker sighed loudly, and Harley twisted around to look up at him. He offered her a sly smirk that she returned as anticipation started to sweep through her.

One of the Mayor's aids set up a microphone on the steps of City Hall, and the media moved in to get their shots set up while the ordinary citizens complained to one another. They needed answers, damnit. They needed to know something was being  _done,_  and they needed to know they weren't being  _lied_  to.

They booed when the Mayor appeared, looking sickly but determined in a fresh suit. The Joker's arm tightened around Harley as he dropped his chin on the top of her head, and a smile spread across her lips as she watched the Mayor puff up his chest and launch into a speech about not giving into fear. He insisted the terrorists only wanted to divide them, but Gotham was a city full of brave people who wouldn't be cowed by a pair of freaks dressed like clowns.

But that wasn't what the crowd wanted to hear, and as the Mayor continued to push his narrative of positivity and togetherness, those good people of Gotham who had been waiting all morning for answers started to get a little _... frisky_.

 _"WE WANT THE TRUTH!"_  One young woman yelled.

_"Yeah! Stop lying!"_

_"STOP LYING! STOP LYING! STOP LYING!"_  They chanted.

Harley and the Joker exchanged a look, both of them fighting back obscene grins that would have drawn attention in the sea of strained faces and angry scowls.

"I understand you're all angry and confused," the Mayor attempted to placate when the chant died down. "But that's exactly they want. They kidnapped me and forced me to deliver that message, and I had to do it to protect our city's children. I—"

"What about Ramierez!" A reporter shouted. "Is she telling the truth?"

"I assure you, we are working to find the truth, including speaking to former detective Ana Ramirez," the Mayor promised, looking rattled. "Her alleged assault by Harvey Dent is—"

"We wanna hear from Gordon!" Someone in the crowd shouted, and a chorus of agreement rolled across the sea of angry citizens.

On the steps of City Hall, the Mayor visibly deflated, seeing his strategy wasn't working. He pursed his lips, thinking fast, trying to give his people what they needed.

But the Mayor didn't understand his people the way Harley and the Joker did.

The Joker released Harley and slid his hand in the front pocket of his jeans to retrieve a smartphone. Harley felt anticipation dance through her again as he pulled up the app Lonnie made that would allow them to detonate the device in the Mayor's neck from a safe distance. The graphics weren't very good—just a big red circle that would set off the explosion when tapped—but it was more than adequate for what they had planned.

"You wanna do it?" the Joker drawled, shooting Harley a rakish smirk as he offered her the phone.

"Oh, no, no," Harley protested, beaming up at him. "This one is all yours."

They shared a long look, and though he didn't say it out loud, Harley could see the Joker mulling over that what was  _his_  was now forever entangled in what was _hers_.

"Commissioner Gordon will speak shortly, but we will  _not_  give in to the whims of terrorists," the Mayor was pleading with the crowd. "Until we have concrete evidence that Harvey Dent attacked and killed police officers, there will be no definitive statement about this evolving situation."

"Go  _on_ ," the Joker coaxed Harley, his eyes glowing as he waved the phone at her. "I wanna watch you do it."

Harley's face split into a ridiculous grin. "Oh fine," she agreed, keeping her eyes on the Joker's face as she tapped the red button on the phone screen.

"Gordon could come out here and tell you what the Joker and Harley Quinn want you to hear," the Mayor continued gravely. "But with public trust currently in a —"

_BANG_

It was a small, quick explosion like a firecracker, but  _boy,_  was it messy. The Mayor's head exploded in a syrupy shower of blood and brains, leaving his headless body swaying behind the microphone as the street exploded into chaos. The body collapsed, and the screaming ratcheted up a notch as people began to flee in terror, panic swelling all around them.

Harley watched Gordon react to the carnage, the abject horror on his face making her feel all kinds of  _satisfied,_  and she fantasized about where the Batman and the Canary might be in that moment, watching from some secret lair... feeling all  _helpless._

The Joker grabbed Harley's hand and gave her a yank to get her moving through the swirling crowd that was rapidly transforming into a stampeding mob.

"I'm hungry," the Joker announced when they reached the end of the block and could hear each other over the screaming.

"Want to grab some brunch?" Harley asked, shooting one last look over her shoulder at City Hall before smiling up at the Joker.

"Uh _, brunch_?" he raised a dubious eyebrow that made Harley laugh.

"You don't know what brunch is?" she teased slyly. They were moving further away from the pandemonia, which was rapidly being contained by the GCPD. The idiots were forcing the mob to stay in one place instead of allowing them to disperse.

"I'm gonna take a wild guess," the Joker drawled. "And say some kinda...  _blend_  of breakfast and lunch."

"Oh, brunch is so much more than that," Harley gushed dramatically, rolling her eyes. "Brunch is an  _institution_."

"Hmm," the Joker wrinkled his nose like he smelled something offensive at the suggestion of an  _institution_. "Alright... tell me more," he agreed reluctantly.

"At brunch, not only can you eat breakfast all day," Harley smirked and spread her hands wide. "But you can  _drink_  at breakfast time."

The Joker snorted incredulously. "So uh, according to  _society,_  it's only within the confines of  _brunch_  that you're allowed to get drunk early and eat breakfast all day?"

"Yep," Harley confirmed, raising her eyebrows appraisingly. "Those are the rules."

"Oh, the  _rules_ ," the Joker smirked and threw a wiry arm over her shoulders again, pulling her into his side. "Sounds like  _someone_  needs to remind these  _brunch_  people they can drink and eat whatever the fuck they want."

" _Someone_  has to free the brunch slaves," Harley agreed happily.

The Joker chuckled and squeezed her closer, and Harley was again reminded of her desire to merge into him. One body. One superhuman. One force of nature. She had spent so long chasing the things she was supposed to want, building the life she was supposed to have in the civilian world and the criminal world alike. But it never made her happy. She'd given up on all of that now, and with the Joker by her side, she could be whatever she wanted to be. She could do anything she wanted.

She was free.

_End Part 3_

_Fin._

* * *

**A/N: There it is people. I tried to make it shorter, I really did.**

**Now stop, take a deep breath, read my author's note, and give yourself a moment before you move onto the epilogue because that was QUITE a lengthy chapter.**

**I cannot believe how many of you have been reading this every week, even if you haven't been commenting or reviewing. Oh, I see all of you, and if you wanna drop me a review now, it's quite time appropriate. It's amazing to have people reading this thing religiously, and I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have.**

**I know things got a bit meh with Pam's arrival/Harley's mob career - I felt it too - so if you stuck with me despite that, bravo.**

**Let's all stop and take a moment to remember Bruno, who I know we all miss dearly. We'll never forget you, Bruno.**

**Now onward to the epilogue... or "Post Credit Scenes" if I want to be a dickhead about it, with a more extensive authors note to let you know about what comes next...**

**Review, my friends xo**


	33. Epilogue

The Harlequin

Epilogue.

* * *

_"The Batman didn't murder Harvey Dent. He saved my boy, then took the blame for Harvey's appalling crimes so I could, to my shame, build a lie around this fallen idol. I praised the madman who tried to murder my own child. But I can no longer live with my lie. It is time to trust the people of Gotham with the truth, and it is time for me to resign."_

Lucy sat at the Iceberg Lounge's empty bar, her hands tee-peed in front of her face as she watched Commissioner Gordon— _former_  Commissioner Gordon—give his resignation speech on the steps of City Hall, and the only thing she could think was...  _woah._

It had been a rocky few days for Gotham, with the Joker and Harley Quinn teaming up to ravage the city. Just that morning, the Mayor had been giving a speech on those same steps at City Hall when his head exploded on camera. The news wasn't showing the footage, saying it was too gruesome for public consumption, but trembling witnesses explained what happened to reporters, their eyes wide and glazed.

"Shit," Lucy sighed, reaching for a bottle of Grey Goose behind the bar as she tried to decide how the boss would have taken advantage of a situation like this.

Business had  _not_  been good since Penguin went away and Sofia Falcone took over, and it only got worse with the Russians making moves in Sofia's absence. They were all talk and muscle. They didn't understand the business, not like Penguin did. They definitely didn't understand that the Iceberg Lounge wasn't just a place to wash cash. Penguin had turned the club into an institution crossing the boundaries of high society and the underworld, a place for deal-making and new relationships and blurred lines.

But these days, the club was nearly always empty. Without Penguin's brand of glamor and danger to draw them in, the socialites and gangsters who used to flock there found new places to be entertained.

The news cut to a panel of pundits arguing about Harvey Dent being a serial killer, and what it meant that the Batman took the fall for him. They couldn't decide how to feel about it; some of them were pissed off; others saw the Batman as a hero; others were too concerned with the Joker and Harley blowing everyone up to care about this recent development.

Lucy poured herself a shot of vodka and knocked it back, wiping her mouth.

"Don't you think it's too early for that... little creature?"

Lucy whipped around to glare at Victor Zsasz where he sat at the opposite end of the bar, his mouth spreading into a creepy little smirk that made her skin crawl.

"I told you not to call me that!" She snapped. "You got any idea how fuckin' creepy you are? Huh?"

But her words only served to make Victor chuckle smugly.

Lucy still wasn't sure if partnering up with Victor Zsasz had been a smart choice. With the Iceberg Lounge hemorrhaging cash, she couldn't afford muscle of her own, just a few girls to bartend alongside her, though most nights the place was so empty it wasn't necessary. So when Victor showed up looking for work in exchange for a place to lay low, Lucy had jumped on it. Besides, only a few days before that, Harley had come by the club, waving a gun around and demanding Lucy tell her where Zsasz was, and Lucy kind of liked the idea of hiring someone Harley  _hated._

But eventually, Lucy found out why Harley had been acting so crazy that day, and she found out  _all_  about Victor's unique 'skillset' and the work he used to do for Carmine Falcone. Now she didn't know if keeping him around was stupid or smart. If she were  _really_  smart, she'd use him to her advantage; she'd use him to prove  _she_  was powerful because  _she_  controlled him.

But it was hard to prove you were powerful when you were broke. What Lucy needed was a new backer, but the Russians were hardly interested in investing in a nightclub.

"Don't worry, little one," Victor sneered at her. "You're not my type with your...  _dirty_  hair."

"Ugh,  _gross,"_  Lucy grumbled, pouring herself another shot and self-consciously pushing her long, dark hair over her shoulder.

The circular oak door meant to look like a prohibition-era secret entrance creaked open then, and Lucy hopped off her stool to run around to the other side of the bar in anticipation of a rare, cherished patron. These days they didn't have people lining up around the block, trying to impress the bouncers enough to be allowed in. Now they just left the front door wide open and hoped customers would come.

Lucy's face lit up when she saw their new guest was young, maybe in his early thirties, and wearing a well-cut three-piece suit—one of those  _really_  fancy ones with a pocket square and everything—and a gold Rolex. That meant he was rich, and he wasn't bad looking either, with high cheek-bones and closely-cropped, curly black hair, though his eyes were a little bug-like and sunken.

"Hiya," Lucy chirped as he looked around the empty club, taking in the nostalgic art-deco glamor before his eyes settled on Victor at the end of the bar. Victor squinted back at him, looking on the verge of saying something totally creepy to their fist customer that day, so Lucy jumped in before he could. "What can I get you?" she beamed, drawing the man's attention back to her.

"Hello," he greeted her, his lips spreading into a small, amused smirk as he approached the bar. "Not many customers today?"

"You know how it is," Lucy shrugged, trying to put on a brave face. "You'd think people would need a drink more than usual with everything going on out there."

The man chuckled, glancing around the club again before he took a seat at the bar. He cocked his head to the side, looking Lucy over quickly. There was something clinical in the way his sunken eyes drifted over her, not checking her out but...  _examining_  her.

Lucy rolled her shoulders back, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling coiling in her stomach.

"What's your name?" He asked, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

"Lucy," she replied, raising her chin, trying to project the confidence Penguin always had when people tried to fuck with him. "I run this place," she added cockily, and the man's smile widened, something a little...  _dangerous_  glinting in his sunken eyes.

"I'm Roman," he said at length, offering Lucy his hand. "Roman Sionis."

"Nice to meet you... Mr Sionis," Lucy replied warily, taking his hand.

Roman glanced around the club again, not releasing Lucy's hand. When he turned back to her, he met her eye again, and tightened his grip on her hand, making the small bones grind together painfully.

Lucy's pulse leaped, but she forced herself not to pull away, holding Roman's gaze intently to prove she wasn't easily-frightened; that she was a powerful boss in her own right even as the hairs at the back of her neck stood on end.

"Well, Lucy," Roman said, smiling lazily despite his vice-like grip on her hand. "It looks like you could use some help here."

"Oh," Lucy faltered, realizing that he was talking about  _money._  "Yeah, maybe we could," she agreed, forcing a weak smile.

* * *

Gordon resigning was just the beginning. Over the weeks that followed, Harley and the Joker continued to make their point to the citizens of Gotham, again and again. But you could only relentlessly terrorize a helpless city with ineffectual law enforcement bolstered by a couple of caped vigilantes for so long. Eventually, you started to feel like you were repeating yourself, and that was so  _boring_.

So they retreated, taking some  _personal_  time to decompress and recuperate while the National Guard attempted to get the city back in working order. But Harley and the Joker would be back. Total destruction was boring too. Far better to draw it out and keep people on their toes.

They'd been camped out at a loft overlooking the bay for just over a week, sleeping in and lazing around and indulging in one another whenever the impulse struck them.

Then Bullock texted, saying he needed to see Harley.

How  _very_  interesting.

It was late when Harley and the Joker pulled up outside the MCU, torrential rain pounding down on the roof of the Crown Vic. They'd briefly discussed the possibility of Bullock betraying them, of this being an ambush, but Bullock had stuck it out through kindergartens and cops getting blown up, not to mention all the abhorrent things they'd done in the month since then. Besides, what was life without a little risk?

There was a knock on the passenger door, and Harley glanced out the window to see Bullock's outline in the rain before she rolled her eyes toward the Joker in the driver's seat, raising her eyebrows appraisingly. He lifted a lazy eyebrow back at her, silently communicating that Bullock reaching out to  _them_  was a bit unusual but who the hell cared, before he unlocked the doors.

Bullock hopped into the backseat, the rain outside almost deafening until he got the door shut again.

"You two ever heard the word inconspicuous?" Bullock complained by way of greeting, pulling off his soaked trilby to rake a hand through his graying ginger hair. "You're twenty goddamn feet away from the MCU. Are you  _askin_ ' to get caught?"

The Joker chuckled under his breath while Harley twisted around to smirk at Bullock in the backseat.

"I missed you, Harvey," she told him fondly, her smirk growing when Bullock got all flustered. "What do you have for us?" Harley continued, cocking her head to the side as she watched Bullock fumble inside his tattered trenchcoat.

"First, I'm not your mailman,  _Ann_ ," Bullock groused, using Harley's pseudonym as he handed her an envelope.

Harley frowned as she examined the envelope. It was addressed to Bullock in typeface, making it look like a letter from a bank or gas company, nothing unusual that would stick out in the MCU's mailroom. She opened it cautiously, her eyes widening when she found a postcard featuring Seattle's luscious green skyline inside.

And on the back was a short message in slanted script.

_Ann,_

_It looks like you've been having fun without me. Let's talk soon._

_Love,_   
_Lillian Green_

Lillian Green had been Pam's pseudonym while she was in Gotham.

Harley laughed incredulously, her face splitting into a bewildered grin as she re-read the message three times, then looked up at the Joker.

He was frowning at her, tonguing the scar tissue inside his cheek thoughtfully. They had discussed the  _Pam_  situation a handful of times and ended up agreeing to disagree. Harley was still worried about what happened to her and felt a certain degree of regret over how everything ended, while the Joker saw all these feelings as a waste of time and energy. And besides, he'd pointed out, Pam could do  _anything_  she wanted, but she chose to be no fun instead.  _Yawn._

The Joker's dark eyes narrowed as he searched Harley's face in the dim light emanating from the street lamps outside, and he could read her well enough by now to know that a relieved smile like that could only be about ' _Red_.' He made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat and turned to look out the window.

"I'm gonna assume that means something to you," Bullock huffed impatiently. "Look, I gotta get back inside, but there's something else you should know."

Harley and the Joker both turned around to look at Bullock, their eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"We busted some Odessa thugs last night," Bullock continued, looking at Harley instead of the Joker. "They say Boris Kosov put hits out on both your heads."

"And why would a buncha Boris's minions tell you  _pigs_  what he'd up to?" the Joker drawled, slumping down in his seat to stare out the windscreen at the torrential rain. "Seems kinda...  _suspect,_  don't ya think, Harley?"

"It sure does," Harley agreed, squinting at Bullock warily. "Almost like they  _want_  us to come find them."

"Maybe," Bullock agreed flippantly. "We caught em' trying to buy a rocket launcher off some Russians at the docks. So uh, that should give you some idea what you're up against."

Harley and the Joker snorted in unison as they looked at each other again, another silent exchange passing between them.

"Thanks, Bullock," Harley turned to flash the detective a grin. "We'll take care of it."

"Yeah, yeah," Bullock held his hands up as he started to scoot out of the car. "I don't wanna know, alright? I'll see ya..."

He pushed the door open and disappeared out into the rain, leaving Harley and the Joker alone again.

"This should be interesting," Harley observed, settling back in her seat. "But doesn't it feel a little...  _obvious_  for Boris to try to take us out?"

" _Obvious_  is the best they can do," the Joker drawled arrogantly, twisting the key in the ignition. The engine hummed to life as he tipped his head toward Harley, lifting one knowing eyebrow at her. "But you  _did_  kill his second in command," he pointed out.

"It was an accident," Harley scoffed.

"Yeah, you  _accidentally_  kicked him off a roof," the Joker chuckled.

Harley laughed happily and slid across the long front seat so she was sitting beside him. He slung a lanky arm over her shoulders as he pulled the car away from the curb, and she settled into his side.

As they turned onto the main road, the Joker hummed mildly, his mind obviously on their new mission. Harley already knew what he was thinking. That the Batman and Black Canary —her updated moniker thanks to some dramatization by Arturo Rodriguez —would have heard about Boris's designs on them too. Gordon may have no longer been police chief, but the Batman evidently still had sources in the MCU, and there was little to no chance they would stay out of it.

Eastern European gang members putting hits on their heads? The Batman and Black Canary trying to get in the way? Russians with rocket launchers?

Oh, that was  _more_  than enough to get Harley and the Joker out of bed.

They'd done enough relaxing lately. Now it was time to have a little  _fun._

* * *

**A/N:** **So, there's a 'Holiday Special' coming. I'll be posting it on Christmas Day. I hope you all read it!**

**I'm going back to a grittier, condensed style instead of the sprawling time-jumping that characterized 'Part Three.'**

**There is also a sequel coming next summer, depending on real life. It will feature** **the bad guy mentioned above in the Iceberg Lounge scene. I am herby casting Rami Malek in that role. Upon this writing, Birds of Prey has not been released, but however Ewan McGregor decides to play him, I'll be doing a "Nolan version" of the character.  
**

**The sequel has a second Nolan-ized bad guy. I'll give you a hint...**

__**I tease your brain and taunt your tongue  
To only the sharpest mind will the right answer come  
What am I?**

**Follow me on tumblr for more updates, I'm knit-wear-it**

**See you Christmas Day.**

**Looking forward to all your thoughts ;) xo**

**Author's Note:**

> Updates on Sundays. 32 Chapters. This is a goddamn behemoth so buckle up!


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